


Star Trek: Shield 1x01 “Pilot”

by raiining



Series: Star Trek: SHIELD [1]
Category: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell, Stargate Atlantis, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Dresden Files - Jim Butcher
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Alternate Universe - Star Trek Fusion, Gen, Girl!Harry Dresden, M/M, medically inaccurate schizophrenia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-11
Updated: 2016-01-11
Packaged: 2018-05-13 05:33:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5696932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiining/pseuds/raiining
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The <i>U.S.S. Shield,</i> NCC-69741, is a <i>Miranda-</i> class starship, commissioned by Starfleet and built at the Utopia Planitia shipyards.  Having served in the Dominion War in a number of capacities, she and her crew have now been relegated to patrol duty, doing endless flybys of neighbouring systems.</p>
<p>The next five years are supposed to be routine, a slow march towards retirement, except that her captain is tired, her first officer has secrets, her chief engineer is a murderer, and her science officer is schizophrenic.  Add in a half-Romulan helmsman and a chief medical officer who just wants off the ship and, well - perhaps the next five years won’t be so routine after all.</p>
<p>And none of that takes into account Clint Barton, the elusive mercenary known as Hawkeye, or Starfleet Intelligence Officer Phil Coulson, who'll disobey orders to be the one who brings him in.  Suffice it to say that ‘routine’ is most definitely <i>not</i> in the cards…</p>
<p> </p>
<p>(A Star Trek/Multifandom Fusion AU)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Huge beta thanks to Ralkana, OrderlyChaos, and Desert_Neon for all their amazing help. Thank you, ladies!
> 
> Please note: Clint/Coulson is the primary developing relationship in this series. All other eventual relationships are background.

“London Bridge is falling down, falling down, falling down. London Bridge is falling down, my fair lady.”

The tune was an old one, half-remembered from childhood, but for some reason it was stuck in his head. Clint Barton hummed it gamely, thankful for its slightly addictive quality - the next line was something about… build it up again? Yeah, that was it - “Build it up with wood and clay, wood and clay, wood and clay. Build it up with wood and clay, my fair lady.”

A stream interrupted the trail, probably an offshoot from the distant falls. Clint hopped it easily, his booted feet sure on the slippery rocks. The next line seemed strangely apt. “Wood and clay will wash away, wash away, wash away. Wood and clay will wash away, my fair lady.”

The pack on his back shifted a little. Clint straightened his shoulders, careful to reset it, even as he deliberately turned his attention away from its weight.

What was the next line again? He wasn’t sure. Something about ‘build it up.’ Mortar, maybe? Or bricks? 

“Build it up one more time,” he started, but stopped with a shake of his head. No, that wasn’t it.

Really it was a miracle he remembered the song at all - the orphanage where he’d spent the majority of his childhood hadn’t exactly been tune-friendly. Maybe Barney…? No. His mother must have sung it over his cradle. A very old memory, then. Maybe he should look up the words.

A bird squawked high above his head, and Clint turned his face to the sound, smiling at the bright blue plumage. Not that it was likely he’d find the words to an ancient Earth ditty on a planet like Betazed. But who knew? Maybe he would. The Federation was weird like that.

He turned his attention back to the trail, looking around. He really did like it here. Betazed was such a beautiful planet. There were ancient jungles, deep lakes, and - of course - gorgeous people.

The woman who’d been working at the visitor’s station outside the Janaran Sanctuary had been especially lovely, though the man who’d stood behind her had been almost as nice. “The paths are open from sunrise till sundown,” she’d explained, in that wonderfully deep, full throated voice so many Betazoids had. Clint had wondered if it was because they were telepaths. “Wild animals tend to stay away from the trails, but please remember that harming any creature within the Sanctuary is strictly forbidden.”

“Of course, love,” Clint had said, pocketing the map she’d given him.

“And while the safety of our visitors is our primary goal,” she’d continued, “please know that only stun-capable phasers are allowed within the Sanctuary.”

“I don’t carry a phaser,” Clint had assured her. “I don’t care for them.”

He really didn’t. The truth was always the best when dealing with telepaths, and the truth was that Clint found the point-and-click action of a phaser incredibly boring. Not only that, but they were also extremely limited - phasers could stun, injure, or kill. That was it.

Now the _bow,_ well. The bow was an elegant weapon. It could kill. It could stun. It could incapacitate! It could also be modified to carry tracking sensors and communication data and poison tips, if the job required it. Clint grinned and patted his wrist. His custom-designed beauty could also fit into a hidden holster when folded, and the quiver was small - a thin cut of cloth tied to the length of his back, strapped flat beneath his canvas-leather jacket.

He could hardly feel it, even with the pack on his back. The pack was brown much like the rest of his outfit, neither standing out nor attempting to hide. It was just _there_ \- completely ordinary, because of course, there was no reason for it to have anything extraordinary inside.

Clint whistled to find the tune again, deciding to start from the top. “London bridge is falling down, falling down, falling down. London bridge is falling down, my fair lady!”

He kept his mind on the song and his footing, inhaling the sweet smell of the jungle. Air _tasted_ better on-planet, with none of the slightly metallic quality that came from recycled atmosphere. Of course, the transports he’d hopped on and off for most of his life had been pretty low quality. He’d heard half-drunk members of Starfleet claim that you couldn’t tell the air from a Federation starship from Earth norm because the air purifiers were that good, but Clint would believe it when he smelled it. 

Which would be sooner than he liked, if he wasn’t careful. Clint glanced at the timepiece hooked to his belt. So far the job had gone well, but Clint knew he’d feel safer off-planet. He estimated the distance he’d already walked and then nodded to himself, resettling his pack. He’d be there soon.

Unexpectedly, the jungle ahead rustled. Clint tensed badly before forcing himself to relax. He couldn’t help the buzz of relief he felt when two women approached from the opposite end of the trail, obviously civilians. They were in brightly coloured tunics and casual shoes, and were holding hands.

The darker of the pair looked at him quizzically, so Clint smiled broadly in that way Nat always said make him look like an idiot, and thought as loudly as he could, _Wow! Isn’t that sky blue!_

The woman chuckled and nodded, looking back to her companion. Clint smiled broadly and walked by.

Whew. That was close. Why did he think his mental powers were strong enough for a job on Betazed, anyway? Playing dumb tourist was harder than he thought.

At least he looked the part. Clint was pale, that particular shade of hungry-white that came when humans descended from the northern Earth continents lived aboard cheap starships for too long. He had a UV emitter in storage, and he used it sometimes to darken his skin, but when he took this job he’d decided the fewer lies, the better. Clint was just a spacer, a nobody who had managed to scrounge enough for a trip to the legendarily beautiful planet of Betazed, now almost totally recovered from the Dominion Occupation.

The fact that he hadn’t ‘saved’ so much as ‘was offered a ridiculous amount of money’ was just a side note, and the fact that he was here less to vacation than to steal a priceless artifact was completely beyond mentioning. He was just taking a walk, through the jungle, towards where he would - totally coincidentally - run into a ship. 

A ship that he had parked here yesterday and covered with a camo net, making it all but invisible to the naked eye. 

Clint stuffed his hands in his pockets and whistled again, trying to figure out the next line of his song. Bricks and mortar. He was almost positive it was bricks and mortar.

“Spread out,” someone called to his left. “You’re too far east!”

Clint jumped. He looked around, his heart pounding wildly. That didn’t sound like a civilian!

“For goodness sake,” another voice muttered, too close to where Clint was standing. “Use the communicators, don’t _shout._ ”

Clint bit back a curse, pausing for a heart-stopping second while he debated his options. He _knew_ that voice. He could run, but then they’d chase him, or he could hide, but he was probably already projecting his mental panic loud enough that any second they would - 

“He’s there! Right in front of you! Right there!”

The jungle to the right of the path parted and Clint found himself face-to-face with the one person he had _most hoped_ he’d never see again.

“Hawkeye!” Phil Coulson said, sounding nearly as surprised as Clint felt. Then his face hardened. “Stop right there.”

Like it was hardwired in him to do the exact opposite of whatever Phil Coulson said, Clint turned and ran.

The jungle green slapped against his thighs as he darted right, abandoning the trail to dash through the undergrowth, leaves and vines tangling his arms and legs. Behind him he heard a curse, and then a shout. The jungle rustled all around him.

_There are three of them,_ Clint thought to himself as he ran. _No, five!_

Just a little farther. He just had to make it a little farther…

“Halt!” a woman shouted, stepping out of the jungle and into his way. She was dressed in the typical maroon and grey uniform of Betazed Planetary Security, and was clearly _not_ a civilian.

Clint dove to the ground, moving on instinct - he rolled, kicking low as he moved, and connected with the woman’s left knee. She stumbled, and Clint bounced to his feet, striking with his fist against the side of her head. Her eyes rolled back as she fell.

Clint paused, wasting a half-second he didn’t have to make sure she was merely unconscious and not dead. Satisfied, he continued his run, checking his timepiece and the tracker next to it. 

He was going to make it…

The jungle buzzed angrily to his right. Clint chuckled to himself as he hopped another creek and kept going. They were firing phasers set on stun. Stun would knock him out if he got hit with it, but it wouldn’t - 

_Bzzt!_

Clint staggered to a stop amidst the trees. That had _not_ been a phaser set to stun. Warily, he held his arms over his head and turned around.

Lieutenant Commander Phil Coulson, of Starfleet Intelligence, held a Starfleet-issue phaser, nose flaring from his own run through the jungle, his normally impeccable uniform stained by uttaberry juice and mud. His gaze was hard, and his aim never wavered.

Clint swallowed. “Hey there, Coulson. How’s it going?”

“It was going better before I knew it was you I was chasing,” Coulson said. His voice was as unwavering as his aim. “Drop the backpack, Hawkeye.”

Clint mimed surprise. “Backpack? What backpack?”

Coulson didn’t look away, but the jungle rustled as the four remaining Betazoids stepped forward. Each was holding a phaser and pointing it unerringly in Clint’s direction.

Clint’s eyes widened. “Oh, _this_ backpack.”

Coulson smiled. “That backpack.” 

Clint moved with exaggerated care, giving himself time to think. He slipped the bag off his shoulders and held it up with one hand. “This backpack right here?” he repeated, holding it up. “And you want me to - ” He let it slip an inch or two through his fingers. “- drop it?”

All four Betazoid’s caught their breath. Clint grinned.

Coulson’s gaze flickered. “Yes,” he ground out. “I do.”

“Hmm, you know,” Clint said, shifting the pack to a two-handed grip in front of his chest. “I don’t think I will.”

Coulson’s grip tightened around his phaser. “Hawkeye - ”

The Betazoids eyed him, their aim steady, but Clint could see their gazes kept wandering back to his pack. 

Clint shook his head. “No. I think you know what I have in here -” He jiggled the bag, and every Betazoid tensed. “- and I think you know how much it’s worth.”

Coulson’s gaze never wavered. “I think you knew you’d be walking through the jungle, and you packed it appropriately. You’re an assassin and a thief, Hawkeye, but you aren’t stupid.”

Clint mimed a swoon to cover the very real quick beat of his heart. “Why, Coulson, I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said about me.”

Coulson ground his teeth. “Just put it down, Hawkeye.”

“Nope, nope, it’s not going to be that easy,” Clint told him. He very deliberately did _not_ glance down at his tracker. Either he was close enough, or he wasn’t. “But think of it this way,” Clint said, just before he reached for his ship’s communicator. “This time, you _almost_ caught me!” 

He pressed the transport button.

For a heart-stopping second, nothing happened, and then Coulson’s eyes widened and Clint felt the impenetrable hold of a transporter beam initialize around him. One of the Betazoids fired their stun phaser, but the shot bounced off the beam and into the forest.

“Better luck next time!” Clint called, or tried to. Before he could get the words out, he was gone.

 

***

 

_Captain’s Personal Log, Stardate 56846.5,_

_It’s been a long six months in space. The_ U.S.S. Shield _has just docked at Starbase G-6, near the Betazed System. We’ve spent the weeks of this fragile peace with the Romulans keeping our eyes and our ears - not to mention our sensors - peeled for any sign of disturbance. Our patrol has taken us across the length and breadth of the Federation, but that’s the beauty of the_ Miranda class starship - we can do anything, be _anything, the Federation needs us to be._

_Still, I have to say that being relegated to patrol duty rankles. This ship saw good action in the Dominion War. I know it’s been four years now, and the majority of the crew I fought with then has been promoted and left the ship, but I can’t help feeling that we’ve been forgotten. Ah well, it’ll be good for the people I have now to stop and stretch their legs. Starbase G-6 has certainly grown since the Occupation of Betazed and the destruction of Starbase 19. My first officer tells me that Down Below carries real Russian vodka now. I’ll have to check it out._

Captain Robert Block thumbed off his computer terminal and leaned back in his chair, glancing out of his ready room viewport. The silvery-metal docking arm of Starbase G-6 was clearly visible - an arching contraption that _was_ significantly more impressive than the old cramped, extendable arm had been.

The construction had been going on for some time now, and would likely continue for some weeks in the future. Such was the legacy of the Dominion War. The nearly crippled Federation had decided that expanding the already present facilities would be easier than building an entirely new base, and Block had to agree with them, even if he was sure that money had changed hands to ensure that was the decision Starfleet made. The Federation might not have a real currency, but the rest of the galaxy did, and the Orion Syndicate in particular had deep pockets.

No matter, Block might like Down Below but that didn’t mean that he’d entirely forgotten Starbase 19. They’d had a bottle of highland scotch that had been _particularly_ fantastic…

He sighed. Yet another thing lost to the war.

The chime to his ready room sounded, and Block turned away from the window. “Yes?”

The door slid open to reveal his new first officer. Well, not ‘new’ - Natasha Romanova had been serving with him for over six months now, since before the _U.S.S. Shield_ had been sent on patrol. Robert nodded to her, unable to completely squash the now-familiar disappointment that she wasn’t Susan. Commander Finly had served with him for years prior to receiving her own command, and he didn’t begrudge her the promotion.

Much.

“Captain Block?” Romanova asked, holding up a padd. “I have those last minute transfers you asked to be made aware of.”

“Ah, yes, Commander, thank you,” Block said, reaching up and taking the padd when she offered it. He thumbed his way down the names. “Good, very good.”

Romanova didn’t move. “Sir, I would once again like to point out that - ”

Block waved away her concern. “Danielle Cage will make a fine Security Chief, my dear. You really should get over the fact that she’s Betazoid.”

Romanova’s eyes hardened. “That was not my concern, Captain.” 

Block did his best to hide a wince. Six months and he still felt like he didn’t really _know_ his first officer. “Sorry, Natasha. You were saying?”

Unfortunately, the use of her first name didn’t seem to mollify her - if anything, her gaze grew even _more_ flinty. 

_Russians,_ Block thought to himself. _I’ll never understand them._

“I wanted to draw your attention to the fact that Chief Medical Officer Tyrannus Basilton Pitch has once again requested a transfer, and his request has - once again - been denied. I wanted to respectfully ask your reasoning for that.”

Block shook his head, putting the padd down and sliding it across the desk towards her. “Baz is a young pup,” he explained. “He’s confused. At thirty-two years old, he should be thrilled to be the Chief Medical Officer on board a Starfleet ship - and he is. In his heart, he is.”

Romanova lifted an eyebrow. “And the repeated requests for transfers?”

Block shrugged. “A rebellion. A small one, it’s true, but then again, young Baz has never really had the opportunity to rebel before. Remember, I knew his mother. That woman was a legend, but she was fierce.”

As expected, the mention of Admiral Pitch made Romanova hesitate. “I’ve only heard stories, of course, but her defence of Ricktor Prime is now being taught at Starfleet Academy.”

“As well it should be,” Block agreed. “What she and the _U.S.S. Grissom_ managed that day was nothing short of a miracle. Her loss, and the loss of her ship, is a wound still deeply felt by the Federation.”

They were silent for a moment in remembrance.

Finally, Block stood. “If there is nothing else, Commander Romanova?”

She shook her head. “That was all, Captain.”

“Very well, then. Now that the ship is safely docked, I might as well join our crewmates in Down Below. Will you remain aboard to greet the new arrivals?”

Romanova quirked an eyebrow. “Since you’ll be gone, I guess I’ll have to.”

Block chuckled. “Thatta girl. Don’t worry, I’ll try the Russian vodka for you and tell you how it is.”

“Much appreciated, Captain,” Romanova said dryly.

Block shot her a look, but couldn’t quite decide whether she was joking or not. Ah, well. He clapped her on the shoulder. “Very good, Commander.” 

Turning, Block led the way out of his ready room and onto the bridge. At the sight, he couldn’t help but smile. He really did love his ship. The crew, though. He sighed. Well, the crew had changed over the years.

Block didn’t know the names of the crewmen on duty at the aft stations, but they all looked incredibly young to him. The half-Romulan lieutenant junior-grade at the helm he _did_ know, if only because he’d protested when John Sheppard had been assigned to his ship.

Block didn’t care what admiral he’d gussied up to - the man was _half-Romulan._ As far as Block was concerned, he should never have been allowed into Starfleet.

“Lieutenant,” Block greeted stiffly. “All’s well?”

Sheppard shrugged without looking up. “We’re docked at Starbase G-6. We’re fine, sir.”

Block consciously stopped himself from making a face. That was another thing he didn’t like about Sheppard - the man had an annoyingly apathetic work ethic. He turned his reports in on time, but he did his duty and not an inch more. He also kept his hair a shade past regulation length and couldn’t seem to stand without leaning against something. Block had to admit that the man could fly, but then again, they’d been doing _border patrol_ for the past six months. There hadn’t been any need for maneuvers worth bragging about. 

“Well, very good then,” Block said, moving on.

The operations officer was a full-bird Lieutenant named Snow that Block knew from a previous command. He was a good officer and came from an established Starfleet family. Block stopped for a few moments to chat before a curse from the science station drew his attention. Block looked over.

Rodney McKay gestured imperiously at someone who wasn’t there before muttering to himself and looking back down at his console. Block frowned and made his way to the rear section. “Hello, Rodney. Is everything okay?”

Rodney McKay - arrogant, loud-mouthed genius, and so crazy it drove Block up the wall half the time - barely flicked a glance at him. “Yes, it’s fine. Or at least, it _would_ be fine, if Radek would hurry up and _be useful_ for once in his life. I swear, that Czech is the absolute worst - ” Rodney raised his voice. “Yes, I _was_ talking about you, actually. I would shut up if you’d adjust the radial emitters like I asked you too, but since you're being _useless_ , I thought I’d - ”

Block sighed and didn’t bother looking around. He’d gotten used to Rodney a long time ago. “Very well. If you and - and Radek - need anything, just let me know.”

Rodney rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I’m going to bother you during shore leave to complain that the figment of my imagination is being useless - you _are,_ you - well, then _fix the goddamn emitters!_.” He sighed. “Sorry, Captain.” He looked back at his screen. “I’ll just ping Commander Romanova if I need something, or Sheppard.” He shrugged. “He’s probably hanging around here somewhere.”

“Yes, he is,” Block said, glancing towards the helm. He frowned. “I didn’t realize the two of you were close.”

Rodney squinted at his computer, supremely unconcerned. “Well, he’s half-Romulan, you know. He’s got that whole - ” he flapped a hand around his head like a demented hummingbird - “near-perfect recall thing. Not as good as a Cardassian, of course, but - ” he peered down at his console, “good enough.”

“Really,” Block said. He didn’t like it, but then again, it wasn’t like he could stop Rodney from talking to a member of his own crew. He pursed his lips. “Do what you need to do,” he said finally, putting a hand on Rodney’s arm, “but get those sensors fixed. I need them operational by eighteen-hundred hours.”

Rodney nodded. “We’ll have it done, no worries,” he straightened, “and they’ll be one hundred _and twenty_ percent better by the time we’re done, one hundred and _twenty-three_ if Radek would just - ” Rodney sighed and stepped to his left, ducking his shoulder as if he were butting in front of someone Block couldn’t see, and jabbed at the console. “ _There._ You useless figment of my imagination. I should just go back on the drugs that make you go away, if this is all the brilliance you can give me.”

Block shook his head and turned away. Half the time he thought Rodney _should_ go back on the antipsychotics his physician had prescribed. He’d known Rodney when he was on them - they’d served together before the Dominion War, after all. On the medication, Rodney was quiet, kept to himself, and served as a solid Science Officer.

_Off_ the medication, though, he was a genius. He’d resolutely pitched the drugs the moment the Dominion had made their first move, and as far as Block was aware, he hadn’t gone back on them again. 

Well, the medication was a question for another day. Without it, Block was sure that he’d have sensors that functioned at one hundred and twenty-three percent, and a Science Officer that drove him and half the crew bananas.

Block stepped away from the starboard side station and towards the turbolift, passing the security post as he did. For the moment, it was being manned by Cathy Michaelmas, a Lieutenant Junior Grade that Lieutenant Commander Chez had hired before he’d left. 

Michaelmas offered him a nod as Block walked by. Block returned it. The kid seemed good, but goddamn, was she ever _young._ Still, she must be qualified if Chaz had recommended her - it was too bad she couldn’t be promoted to Security Chief in Chaz’s absence. Even if Starfleet had been getting used to quick promotions in the wake of the Dominion War, a bump from Lieutenant Junior Grade to Lieutenant Commander would have been too much of a jump.

Block pursed his lips. Lieutenant Commander Danielle Cage was going to work out fine, just fine. Starfleet had assigned her, but Block was willing to put up with it. It would be okay.

“Commander Romanova,” Block said as he turned for one last look at his crew. “You have the bridge, and the ship. I’ll be in Down Below.”

She nodded to him from the Captain’s chair. Snow looked up from Ops as he did.

“Captain Block? I’ve received a message from Chief Engineer Dresden. She says there’s something -” He blushed slightly. “ - and I quote ‘wonky’ - going on with the engines. She said she’s heading to Starbase G-6 to figure it out.”

Block blinked twice. “‘Wonky?’”

Snow bit his lower lip. “That’s what she said.”

Block bit back a sigh. “Very well, Lieutenant. Keep me informed.” He shook his head and stepped back, keying for the turbolift. _Honestly, some days…_ Block resolutely pushed the thought away. _I need a drink._

 

*

 

Lieutenant Commander Danielle Cage rocked back on her heels as she waited in the docking bay on board Starbase G-6, her personal belongings in a duffel-bag at her feet. The bay was nearly empty - there had been eight other crewmembers transferring onto the _U.S.S. Shield_ along with her, but they had all been picked up already. There had been two junior nurses transferring into medical, two ensigns and a lieutenant going to engineering, and three post-docs on their way to science. 

Danielle had made small talk with all of them while they’d waited, and with the ten officers who’d been transferring _off_ the ship for greener pastures. The three post-docs had been the last to go, having been picked up by their senior researcher over fifteen minutes ago. Danielle had been specifically told to wait for either the captain or the first officer to come and get her, and she tried not to mind that they were late. Instead, she used the extra time to refresh her memory, re-reading on her padd all the notes she’d made on the _U.S.S. Shield_.

The _Miranda_ -class starship appeared typical of its kind - a six hundred and fifty-five thousand ton vessel crewed on average by one hundred and ten Starfleet officers sent on either science or supply missions, and most recently relegated to patrol duty. It had seen action in the Dominion War, as every ship except the newest off-the-line in Starfleet had, and had survived several engagements with everything from just minimal to near-catastrophic damage. 

Captain Robert Block was in command, a solid officer spoken of in respectful - if hardly legendary - terms. Most of the crew had been rotated off since the War, when promotions had opened up left, right, and centre. Danielle was only here because of one such promotion - she’d been an ensign during the war, and had won accolades in the retaking of Betazed, an engagement she’d volunteered for. She’d progressed quickly through the ranks and was now in the position of being offered head of security.

Danielle was thrilled. The _U.S.S. Shield_ was a small ship, it was true, but she wasn’t discouraged - one hundred and ten people were more than enough for her to worry about. The moment she stepped on board, their lives would become her sole concern. It was a duty Danielle was absolutely committed to performing to the best of her ability, and it was a challenge she was looking forward to. She’d served as deputy chief of security aboard the _U.S.S. Tian An Men_ for the past year, and while she’d learned a lot under Lieutenant Commander Rice, she’d also had several ideas he’d been unwilling to put into service. Now that she was security chief outright, making such decisions would be hers.

And realistically, the _U.S.S. Shield_ was the perfect place to practice. The ship was on patrol duty, doing endless flybys of neighbouring systems. It was the kind of ship where nothing ever happened.

“Commander Cage?”

Danielle startled and looked up. Staring at her from about ten paces away was a stunningly beautiful red-headed human woman. She was wearing command-red and had three solid pips on her collar - Danielle knew she must be Commander Natasha Romanova, the _U.S.S. Shield_ ’s first officer.

“Commander Romanova,” Danielle said, straightening her shoulders and firing off a quick salute. “Sorry, sir. You snuck up on me.”

Romanova quirked an eyebrow. “Isn’t that a little unusual for a Betazoid?”

Danielle shrugged and bent down to pick up her bag, putting away her padd. “Not really. G-6 isn’t a huge starbase, but it’s full to the brim right now with traders and construction crews. I’ve put most of my telepathic senses on lockdown to avoid a headache.”

Romanova didn’t relax, and she didn’t make a move to step forward, either. “How does that work, exactly?”

Danielle looked up from her bag and blinked. “Excuse me?”

Romanova’s gaze was steady. “How much are you able to sense, and when?”

Danielle straightened slowly. So, it was going to be like _that,_ was it? “Commander Romanova,” she explained carefully, “I’m a telepath. That means I have a natural ability to read the minds of everyone around me. I want to assure you that I can sense only surface thoughts - if people are hungry, happy, or sad. Sometimes very loud or obvious thoughts can force their way to my attention - for example, someone in Down Below is thrilled right now because they just won big in dom-jot.” The cry of joy _was_ distressingly loud, echoing up from the decks below her feet in a bubble of jubilation. 

“I can’t tell you who that person is, how much they’ve won, or what they’re going to do with their credits - and I _won’t_ know those things unless I do a focused scan.” Danielle’s voice hardened. “I do _not_ do focused scans without the express and witnessed consent of the individual in question, and as we are not currently at war, no one - not you and not the captain - can force me to do a scan on someone unwilling.”

Romanova didn’t look mollified, so Danielle softened. “What I can promise you is that your personal secrets, and the secrets of the crew, are not my concern. My duty is to function as chief of security, and my abilities do give me an edge in that regard, but I will _never_ do a focused scan on you, a member of our crew, or any individual without their express - and witnessed - consent.”

Romanova pursed her lips. “I was on Earth when Admiral Leyton was in charge of planetary security. I’ve heard horror stories of people unwillingly scanned.”

Danielle nodded slowly. At least Romanova had a reason for her paranoia - too many humans she’d met hadn’t. “A dark day in our history, both for Betazed, and for Earth.” She shook her head. “I can only tell you that Admiral Leyton was charged for such offenses, and that all Betazoids involved were universally condemned and are still paying for their crimes. I am not them, and never will be.”

Romanova watched her steadily, but after a moment, she nodded. “Very well. Thank you for explaining.” Her gaze shifted, moving to encompass the whole of Starbase G-6. “What did you mean when you said you had put your telepathic senses on ‘lockdown?’”

Danielle breathed easier with the Commander’s eyes off of hers - that green gaze was powerful, and more than a little unsettling. “Betazoids learn how to exercise control over their telepathic abilities from a young age,” she explained. “While social convention might be what you consider to be ‘looser’ on Betazed, it is still bad manners to project your thoughts too loudly, or to pluck information from another’s mind without asking. Children learn how to shield themselves, how to contain their mind and pay the barest of attention to the outside world.” Danielle shrugged. “I maintain a loose control at all times, but sometimes it’s better to rein things in more tightly when I’m in a new, chaotic environment. Of course,” she smiled wryly, “if I lock things down for too long I _get_ a headache, so there are drawbacks either way.” 

“Interesting,” Commander Romanova said. “I confess, I’ve never met a Betazoid who worked in security before. I thought you people naturally gravitated towards counselling or healing positions.”

Danielle nodded. “Some of us do. I’m from the southern continent - ” She gestured to her dark skin. “- and many of our clans maintain our traditions as warrior telepaths. In ancient days my grandmother’s defended their people from attack by striking out with their minds, and they also practiced a highly sophisticated form of martial arts. I have been training since childhood in both traditions, and when I joined Starfleet, it was natural for me to gravitate towards a security position.”

Romanova nodded. “So in a firefight, what can I expect from you?”

Danielle drew herself to her full height - it wasn’t particularly impressive, but she knew what she could do with it. “I will, at all times, warn you, or the captain, if I sense a threat towards a member of our crew, our ship, or the Federation,” she promised formally. “I will seek permission to engage in a focused scan of such threats, and will alert you if I have a concern about an individual who has refused such a focused scan. In a firefight, I can sometimes sense when or from where the next attack will come, but I warn you that in a fight people often move on instinct, and that is much more difficult to sense.” 

Romanova nodded. “I can live with that,” she said, and finally crossed the distance between them, extending her hand. Danielle blinked and took it, and the two women shook briefly. “Welcome aboard the _U.S.S. Shield,_ Lieutenant Commander Cage.”

“Th- thank you, Commander,” Danielle said, surprised. What she _hadn’t_ mentioned was that physical touch made her telepathic senses stronger, and from the brief contact she had with Commander Romanova’s bare palm, Danielle could sense her strong will, fierce sense of duty, and seemingly endless capacity for endurance. It made Danielle stand a little straighter. “I’ll do my best to do right by you, the captain, and the crew. The welfare of this ship is my primary concern.”

Romanova quirked a smile, and, surprisingly, it actually reached her eyes. “I believe you, Commander. Now,” she said, turning to indicate the open bulkhead behind her, “if you’ll follow me, I’ll give you the ten-cent tour.” 

Danielle nodded and slung her bag over her shoulder, following the Commander away from Starbase G-6 and onto the ship. As they crossed through the open bulkhead, the floor changed from dull metallic grey to a slightly worn blue carpet, its edges lined in brown. 

“This is the _U.S.S. Shield,_ ” Romanova said, indicating the beige, rounded corridors. They were standard Starfleet issue and clean, if slightly scuffed. This was clearly a ship that had seen service. “NCC-69741, commissioned by Starfleet and built at the Utopia Planitia shipyards. She served in the Dominion War in a number of capacities, as a warship, a scout ship, and a rescue vessel. In the four years since the war, she has seen active service, and for the past six months we’ve patrolled Federation space, on the lookout for danger and assisting at planets and starbases as needed. For the past several weeks, since the fledgling peace with the Romulan Star Empire, we have been on the alert for Romulan ships, both those flying by conventional means and those under cloak.”

Danielle nodded. “I read a paper published by one of the science officers on board regarding a new sensor modification that is supposed to boost our ability to penetrate a ship’s cloak?”

Romanova turned and arched an eyebrow at her. “You read Dr. McKay’s paper?”

Danielle blushed. “Well, I _skimmed_ it,” she confessed. “A lot of the technobabble was beyond my comprehension.”

Surprisingly, Romanova smiled. “Yes, well - Dr. McKay’s technobabble is beyond most of our comprehension, and sometimes his own.” At Danielle’s confused look, she shrugged. “Rodney McKay is a brilliant astrophysicist, but he suffers from an interesting form of schizophrenia - he has several active hallucinations, people he can see and hear and who talk to him, and to whom he often talks back. Sometimes it’s the hallucinations who come up with the brilliant ideas, a point which vexes Dr. McKay to no end, though he is at the same time incredibly proud of their accomplishments.”

Danielle stopped and stared at her. “You mean you have a man diagnosed with a mental illness serving on the bridge of a Federation starship?”

Romanova met her gaze and held it. “We have a brilliant scientist who has served the Federation faithfully, and who has saved both this ship and all of our lives numerous times. This man also has a different mental perspective - it is not a danger to him, nor to others, and therefore I would not categorize it as an ‘illness.’ It is simply part of who he is.”

Danielle heard the chastisement in the speech, and lowered her gaze. “I’m sorry, Commander. I was - I was simply surprised.”

Romanova nodded. “That’s understandable. Remember, though, that Dr. McKay currently holds the rank of Lieutenant Commander. He is a member of this crew, and a highly valued one. Neither I nor the Captain will tolerate discrimination against him.”

Danielle could only nod. “Yes, Commander.” She hesitated, not sure if she should explain. “It’s just that - what you said makes complete sense. On Betazed we have a wide tolerance for other people’s mental landscapes, and I’ve worked before with several individuals who were unable to find work on other planets because of their… unique… mental perspective. I’ve never encountered such acceptance on board a Federation starship, however. In my experience, security concerns arise most frequently from other people being unwilling or unable to accept another who is different into their midst.”

Romanova sighed and turned away, continuing their tour. “That’s a fair assessment. I admit that there are several individuals who have been unable to cope with Dr. McKay’s… uniqueness. Most of those have rotated off, but several remain.”

Danielle nodded, following her. “I gather you’ve been responsible for dealing with such concerns until now?” 

Romanova glanced back at her, surprised. “You would be correct.”

Danielle could read the suspicion on her face and held up a hand. “I didn’t get that from reading your mind. It was obvious from your tone, as well as from your expression and the tightening of your shoulders.”

Romanova stared at her for a moment, and then relaxed. “Very well. I apologize if I seem… paranoid.”

Danielle shook her head. “I know the damage Admiral Leyton caused will take time to repair.”

The Commander nodded slowly. “Yes, it will. Anyway - it’s true that such security concerns have fallen to me. Outgoing Lieutenant Commander Chaz is one of those individuals who found Dr. McKay… difficult.”

Danielle nodded. “I understand.” She threw Romanova a wink. “No worry, Commander. Security Chief Cage is here to save the day!”

Unexpectedly, Romanova laughed. It seemed to catch even her by surprise, and her expression shifted to confusion before smoothing once again into a bland mask, but for a moment Danielle caught a glimpse of green eyes dancing with mirth.

It was a beautiful sight.

Romanova seemed embarrassed by her display, coughing once to clear her throat and then gesturing to their right. The corridor they’d been walking down ended at a bank of turbolifts. “Yes, well - very good, Chief. Now if you’ll follow me, I’ll start your tour in earnest.”

 

*

 

_“Shuttle_ Alorian One _, you are cleared to proceed to docking bay three. Shuttle_ Alorian One _, you are cleared to proceed to docking bay three.”_

Clint leaned forward and thumbed on the comm, wincing a little as he did. “Thank you, Starbase G-6,” he said. He must have taken a tree branch to the gut while on his run through the Betazoid jungle - he didn’t remember the hit, but there was a bruise blooming there as big as his arm. “Shuttle _Alorian One_ , proceeding to docking bay three.” 

Clint brushed the last of the antibiotic cream over his various scratches and pulled down the hem of his shirt, putting both hands on the controls as he angled his ship upward. The docking lights of Starbase G-6 led him up and over; from this angle, Starbase G-6 looked like a huge silver cigar hanging in space. It reminded him, as it always did, of Jacques Duquesne, and Clint shook off the memories as he concentrated on following the flightpath.

So far, Clint hadn’t see much of the construction he’d heard muttered of in the same breath as Starbase G-6 these days, but as he crested the curve of the flightpath, it became evident. There were still only twelve levels, with the bottom of the station - the underside of level twelve, really - being Down Below, but there were now several docking bays surrounding the top four instead of only one. Many of the new bays were busy. There were several Ferengi trader ships docked and the ever-present Orion barge, but Clint could also see two Klingon cruisers and one Federation starship. He winced. Great, that was just his luck. 

After beaming to his ship and cold-starting the engines, Clint had blasted off into Betazed's atmosphere and engaged his impulse drive. His goal had been to get far enough away from the planet that he could activate his warp engines, but Coulson had caught up to him first.

He must have had a ship in orbit - the moment Clint had cleared the planet, the Federation shuttle had appeared behind him, firing warning shots to port and starboard. Coulson had been clearly unwilling to fire on Clint directly - his ship had shields, but they weren’t of good quality, and chances were that even a glancing blow from the Starfleet shuttlecraft would have blown Clint out of the sky.

Coulson clearly didn’t want that - though probably less out of concern for Clint’s life than for the treasure he’d stolen.

Either way, it meant that Clint had been willing to risk turning off his comm system when Coulson had started broadcasting the demand for his surrender. There’d been no way he could have gone to warp without Coulson following him, so instead Clint had veered his ship hard to starboard, diving into the Rixx asteroid field that surrounded the Betazed system. 

The maneuver had been risky - most asteroid fields were spread out over huge distances, with kilometers or more between rocks, but the Rixx Field was different. No one knew why, but Betazed’s sister planet Rixx had somehow been thrown out of its orbit only a few thousand years ago, and had tumbled through the darkness space before being cataclysmically destroyed.

Clint’s hadn’t particularly wanted to risk life and limb flying through the asteroid field, but he’d had little choice. Besides, his ship had better maneuvering capabilities than Coulson’s shuttle.

The risk had paid off. Clint had managed to eke out enough distance between them to go to warp without Coulson immediately following. He’d headed towards the galactic south, just in case Coulson caught a whiff of his tail, and then came out of warp a few parsecs away and turned around. His engines had given out halfway back to the system, so it was a good thing that Starbase G-6 had been his intended destination all along. 

Clint had limped to the starbase on half-functioning impulse power, patting his console reassuringly and all but _willing_ the ship to make it to port.

“We’re here now, girl,” Clint said out loud, his hands gentle on the controls. “I know I’ve held you together with spit and glue for a while now, but with the paycheck this job is going to earn me, I promise I’ll get you fixed up nice. How about a new coolant system, eh? That’d be good.”

The lights of the docking bay glittered. Clint eased his baby into bay three, making sure that his ship’s log still pretended her name was _Alorian One_. Her real name was _Lola_ but the Federation probably knew that, so Clint couldn’t exactly display it on his papers. That would catch Coulson’s attention right quick.

The ship docked with a gentle bump, and Clint sighed in relief. Hopefully, Coulson was somewhere very far away right now, chasing Clint’s sensor echo to the galactic south and beyond. He quashed the flare of sympathy he felt for the agent, knowing his eyebrows were going to do _that thing_ they did the minute he realized Clint had outfoxed him again. That dipping thing Clint in no way found adorable.

He shook his head. No, Clint’s sole focus now had to be to get on board, go to Down Below, and wait for his contact. Once the exchange was made, he would worry about fixing _Lola_ and getting as far away from this system as he could.

_“Shuttle_ Alorian One, _”_ the intercom chirped, _“you are now docked at Starbase G-6. Shuttle_ Alorian One _, you are now docked at Starbase G-6. Welcome aboard.”_

Clint smiled. “Thank you, Starbase G-6, we’re glad to be here.”

Slipping out of the pilot’s chair, Clint stood and stretched, wincing as the movement pulled at his ribs. He wandered back to the rear of his ship and collected his pack, settling its familiar weight on his shoulders. While he was there, he ducked into the engine room and flinched at what he saw - he’d _definitely_ need a new coolant system, as well as a half-dozen other components. Clint sighed and stepped back. He could hotwire a replicator and tinker with a shield generator, but he was no ship’s engineer; he’d have to find someone else to do the repairs before he could fly out of here.

At least his bow was all right. Clint reached over and triggered the quick release system on his wrist, smiling as the familiar wood and steel snapped instantly into his hand. His palm covered the custom grip in that perfect way, and Clint took a deep breath in. 

This. This was what he did. He wasn’t a pilot or an engineer or even a very good thief - he was a marksman. He wished he didn’t have to kill so often to do his job, but shooting... shooting was the only thing he’d ever been good at. 

Letting the tension bleed from his shoulders, Clint held his bow for another minute before carefully putting it away. He checked his pack and its precious cargo, and then stepped through the bulkhead and onto Starbase G-6. 

It was time to go make some money.


	2. Chapter Two

“Rollian fruit! Fresh Rollian fruit! Two credits a bushel!”

“Hot rolls sold here! Come and get them! Half price for the construction crew!”

“Say, buddy, do you have an extra credit? I just need one extra credit for dom-jot. I’m down on my luck today.”

Clint shook his head and pushed his way through the crowd that surrounded the docking bay. The press of people brought with it a shock of smells - alien bodies, unfamiliar food, and strange fabrics. It would have been pleasant if it weren’t so close. 

Stumbling clear, Clint looked around. He was on the third floor of the twelve level starbase, which from the inside looked like a stack of metal rings. Turbolifts ran through the hollow centre, connecting one end of the station to the other. 

The traffic away from the docking ring was thinner, but still present - Clint crossed it carefully as he walked towards the railing, inhaling the familiar smell of poorly recycled air. The environmental systems were probably running on overdrive. Making it to the railing, he leaned over the edge and looked around. From here he could see the entire starbase, craning his neck up to watch the Command Deck on level one and peering down to examine the shadowy spaces below level twelve. Lights hung from the ceiling of the Command Deck and along the walls at every level except that notorious thirteenth floor. In the gloom, Clint could only just make out the steady traffic of beings that made their way through the double doors of Down Below, all under the watchful eye of the Orion standing guard.

Looking over the other floors, Clint noted the Orions standing at key positions around the starbase. That hadn’t changed. As much as Starfleet might own Starbase G-6, planting the flag of the Federation in this corner of the galaxy, holding down the Betazed System and those systems near her, the heart of Starbase G-6 was Down Below, and Down Below was loyal to the Syndicate.

Clint made a face. He’d successfully avoided working for the Syndicate for most of his career - he didn’t like slavers, and while the majority of Syndicate business had moved away from the sale and transport of sentient ‘goods,’ there was still a real culture of ownership among the Orions. Clint had been near-enough a slave for too many years to feel comfortable working with people who viewed their underlings as property. 

Turning away from the railing, Clint waved away two more merchants hawking goods and checked instead that his pack was secure. Confident that it was, Clint headed in the direction of the nearest turbolift, stepping carefully around the crowds as he did. His engine troubles might have eaten into his window, but Clint still had a couple of hours before he was due to meet with his contact. Getting to Down Below early would allow him time to scope out the place. _Always expect an ambush_ was a lesson he’d been taught long before he started working as a mercenary.

Clint had keyed for the turbolift and was just stepping into the waiting car when a voice called out, “Hold those doors!”

Clint looked back to see a blue-skinned Bolian hurrying forward through the crowds. The man was wearing a standard grey Federation jumpsuit with yellow piping, but he didn’t look like a typical, confident Feddie. Instead he looked jumpy, glancing frequently over his shoulder. Clint took pity on him and waved a hand at the doors so they stayed open. The Bolian nodded in thanks as he all but threw himself into the turbolift, apparently too out of breath to speak. 

His wheeze turned into an inappropriate squeak when an unusually tall woman appeared, looming suddenly in the shadow of the turbolift. “Running only makes you look guilty, Chegg.”

“Dresden!” the Bolian gasped, putting a hand to his chest. “Where did you come from?”

The woman didn’t bother answering, instead crowding the Bolian against the back wall of the lift as she stormed her way inside, seemingly uncaring when the doors closed behind her. She pointed a finger at him threateningly. “That’s more guilt talking.”

The Bolian huffed. “There’s no guilt! My engine room is fine!”

The woman glared. Clint had to admit she looked intimidating when she did that. She was _very_ tall for a human. She wore the same standard issue Starfleet jumpsuit cut with yellow as the Bolian, but over that she wore a very nonstandard black duster. 

Clint frowned. The duster might actually have been regulation grey at one point, but it had since been painted over with a thick, dark finish that gave it a more leather-like look.

“You say that,” the woman called Dresden accused, “but this is Starbase G-6. We all know that anything can happen if enough money changes hands.”

The Bolian’s eyes widened theatrically. “Where did you hear that?” 

Dresden rolled her eyes. “Honestly, Chegg.”

He puffed out his chest. “Anyway, it’s not true! No one touches my engine room.”

She raised an eyebrow. “That gamma radiation had to have come from somewhere, Chegg, and it wasn’t my ship.” Her voice rose. “ _My_ engines are perfectly aligned. _My_ engines would never throw out random gamma surges. It is _your_ engine room.” The finger stabbed again. “ _Your_ engine room that is at fault.”

“You just said it was random,” Chegg hissed. “Random could mean anything!”

Clint frowned. “Gamma radiation?” 

The woman whirled on him. “Do you know about this?” 

Clint reflexively took a step back. It wasn’t just her height, which was well over six feet, or the way she seemed to be composed entirely of long lines - long face, long arms, long neck. It was the short, messy brown hair and high cheekbones, features that seemed to highlight the intense emotion in her dark brown eyes. 

“Well, I - ” Clint stammered. He hadn’t meant to say anything. Gamma radiation was a dirty way to send coded messages over short distances. Barney had taught him the trick years ago, and it was still useful when comms couldn’t be secured.

He wasn’t about to tell that to a Starfleet officer, though. Clint’s eyes flickered to her collar. Two solid pips and one shaded out. Coulson had the same insignia, which meant she was a Lieutenant Commander. The proprietary tone she’d taken when talking about _her_ engine room meant that she was probably the chief engineer of the Starfleet vessel he’d seen docked to the station. Didn’t yellow stand for operations or engineering or something? 

“I just… gamma radiation,” Clint finished lamely. “That sounds bad.”

She rolled her eyes. “Not unless you're Aldean,” she dismissed, turning back to the Bolian. “Now, Chegg - ”

Just then the turbolift slowed to a stop, the numbers flashing across the screen petering out. “Oh, look at that, I’m on break now,” the Bolian said, bursting out of the lift the moment the doors opened. “We’ll talk later, Dresden.”

He waved over his shoulder as he hurried quickly towards a familiar set of double doors. Clint hadn’t even realized they were heading to Down Below. He glanced around. The traffic here was thinner, but it moved quickly, without the loud bustle of the upper floors. 

Clint looked back at the woman. Surely she wouldn’t - 

With barely a pause she took off after the Bolian. “Get back here, you lily-livered coward!” she shouted. Clint sighed. Yup, apparently she was. “You probably won your engineering degree at a dom-jot table!”

By the time Clint caught up with her, she was already at the doors and arguing with the Orion on duty. “Let me in,” she demanded. “I’ve got a Bolian to broil.”

The Orion looked unmoved. “Ma’am,” he said, “I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

“Or what?” Dresden demanded, getting right up into the Orion’s face. He was a little shorter than her, and she used every inch she had to her advantage. “I’m a Starfleet officer, and I don’t like being told what to do by a rent-a-cop, especially not one who’s Orion. Slaving scumbags, you’re all the same. Now let me in or I’m going to - ”

“Whoa, whoa,” Clint interrupted, grabbing the woman’s arm and dragging her back before the Orion could actually reach the weapon he was going for. “We’ll just be a moment,” he said to the guard. “Please excuse us.”

“What are you doing?” Dresden argued, as Clint pulled her down the hallway. She wrenched her arm out of Clint’s grip. “Let me go.”

Clint stepped back, giving her some space but staying within lunging distance if she tried to take off again. “You know you’re crazy, right? That’s Down Below.” He pointed a finger at the now-scowling guard and the set of double doors. “It isn’t run by the Federation, it’s run by the Orions, and they don’t care what uniform you’re wearing. If you storm in there and bust the place up, they’ll shoot you.”

She scowled, leaning away from him and crossing her arms. “I can handle a stun blast.”

Clint was pretty sure she could, actually. Still, he arched an eyebrow. “Who said anything about stun?”

She frowned. “Look, I appreciate the warning and everything, but come on - Down Below may be run by Orion scumbags, but this is still a Federation starbase - they can’t just kill me and throw my body out an airlock.”

Clint sighed. “It’s happened before, okay?” Wow, were all Feddies so naive? “Just - take a few deep breaths before you go in there. If they’ll even let you in, that is.”

Dresden sighed and ran a hand through her hair, messing it up even further. “Okay, fine. I’m breathing, all right?” She took a deep, obvious inhale. “Better?”

Clint rolled his eyes. “Yeah, sure.” He glanced back at the guard, who was watching them with a scowl. “Never mind. He’s not letting you in.”

Dresden followed his gaze. “Ah, hells.” 

She looked so dejected that Clint found himself curious. “Why do you want to go in there, anyway? So there was a little gamma radiation, so what?”

“Because it’s not just the gamma radiation,” the woman admitted reluctantly. “It’s… I don’t know - power surges, and missing bits of data, and questions that go unanswered. Something strange is going on, and I don’t like it.” She glared at Clint. “This is the first half-decent lead I’ve had and I’m running with it.”

Clint winced, looking back at the door. “You might not have a choice in that.”

She straightened to her impressive height, and set her jaw. “There’s a way, I just have to find it.”

Clint tried to resist feeling moved and failed. It was his own damn fault he found that kind of stubbornness impressive. Still, his brother’s lessons had been pounded deep - when you see something strange, you close your eyes and look away. You don’t get involved, don’t get involved, don’t get involved...

Clint mentally gave Barney the finger. Barney had broken that rule first, after all. “If you do what I say, I can help you get in.”

She looked back at him and narrowed her eyes. “Oh yeah? And what’s it going to cost me?”

Clint shrugged. “An apology and a bribe.”

“To you?”

Clint rolled his eyes in the direction of the Orion. “To _him._ ” 

“What?” Dresden sputtered, looking affronted. “Why?”

“Well, you did insult him, his entire race, and I think his legitimate employment.”

“Legitimate?” Dresden snapped. “He’s an _Orion._ ”

“Yes,” Clint agreed patiently, “and he’s guarding the door.”

“Oh - argh - _fine,_ ” she growled. “How much?”

“Twenty-five credits.”

“ _Twenty-five!_ ”

“Look,” Clint snapped, “you’re a Feddie, which means you by definition have no idea how the galaxy works. Either apologize and pay the man and get in, or go home. Either way, I’ve got places to be and deals to make, so best of luck to you.” He turned away.

“Hey, wait - I’m sorry,” Dresden said, reaching out a hand to stop him. Clint looked back, and she dropped her arm to her side. “I just - ” she ran her hand through her hair again. “I hate this, and it’s not because I don’t know how the galaxy works, I do - better than I ever wanted to - but you’re right. The Federation is a great break from that, you know?” 

Clint huffed. “Not really.”

Dresden looked at him - really _looked_ at him - at Clint began to wonder if offering to help her had been a good idea after all. But after a moment, she smiled. “They were after me too, for a while. Life got better when they finally caught me.”

Clint frowned. “You weren’t a smuggler.”

She shook her head. “Murderer.” Ignoring Clint while he stared, she started forward. “Twenty-five credits, you said?”

Clint blinked and hurried after her, catching up as she dug around the pockets of her duster for change. The Orion watched her warily, but took the credits when she handed them off. 

“I’m sorry for - ” she made a face, “you know, insulting you and everything.”

The Orion grunted, looking unimpressed. “Uh-huh,” he said, before reaching behind his back and triggering the doors. They slid open and exposed the dimly lit interior, filled with the odd gleam of light and faint sounds of music. 

Clint and Dresden started forward, but the Orion’s hand shot out. “Hawkeye,” he rumbled, catching Clint’s arm. “I remember you.”

Clint grimaced, not surprised to be recognized. “Hey, Verem.”

Verem nodded in Dresden’s direction. “The Feddie’s on your watch. She messes up, the boss’ll take it out of you.”

Clint tried to think of some way to avoid that, but he couldn’t come up with anything. Finally he pulled his arm out of the Orion’s grip. “Fine.”

Dresden looked as if she wanted to argue, but Clint shook his head and dragged her forward. “Don’t worry about it,” he muttered as the double doors closed behind them. “You’re not going to kill anybody, are you?”

She frowned and looked around the dark bar. It was filled with beings of every size, shape, and colour. “No promises.”

Clint glared at her hard before releasing her elbow. “Please don’t.” He didn’t even want to _begin_ to think about what Marcia would do to him if he got the place shot up. “Come on, where’s your Bolian?”

Dresden peered through the crowd. Clint left her to it and slid into a seat at the bar, signaling the bartender for two Romulan ales. Down Below was roughly T-shaped in structure, with a long bar lining one wall and chairs and booths scattered around it. Tucked into the right arm were the dom-jot tables and dabo girls, and in the left was a stage where female Orions danced, half naked and enticing. 

Clint was careful to avert his eyes. Though Orion men were seemingly in charge, handling the burly and intimidating jobs, he knew that Orion females held the real power within the Syndicate. They wielded a powerful pheromone that clouded men’s minds, giving the women control. It only affected males, however, so while the girls dancing on stage might look like slaves, performing for the pleasure of their owners, Clint knew the truth.

He’d met Marcia Vargrassi once, the daughter of Tayna Vargrassi and the current _donna_ of the Vargrassi side of the Orion Syndicate. Marcia was beautiful, deadly, and so powerful that pheromones the surrounded her had the ability to warp a male’s mind completely.

Clint agreed with Dresden that all Orions were universal scumbags, but he had to admit that the Vargrassis were the worst of all. They hadn’t been pleased when Clint had refused to work with them, and they’d made his life a living hell for months until he’d sent in a few key bribes. The donation had practically bankrupted him, but it’d let him step inside Orion controlled territory without getting a knife in the chest. 

He was still convinced that Marcia would kill him given the smallest opportunity, and he hoped that helping Dresden into Down Below hadn’t been a mistake.

“So,” he asked, palming his ale and risking a quick look around, “did you find him?”

“He’s over there,” Dresden said, disgusted. Clint followed her gaze to the pit in front of the stage. Sure enough, there was the Bolian Dresden had called Chegg, staring adoringly up at a dancer. “Ugh, I’ll have to wait and get him later.” Dresden shook her head and slid forward onto the stool beside Clint. “He’ll be useless until he’s shaken off the effects of the Orion’s glamour.”

Clint pushed the other ale over to her. “There, there.”

She grimaced, but took the drink. “Thanks. So,” she peered at him over the rim, “‘Hawkeye.’ Why does that name sound familiar?”

“No reason,” Clint said blithely, taking a sip of his ale and meeting her eyes. “Who’d you kill?”

Surprisingly, she chuckled. “Okay,” she admitted, “I deserved that. No more questions, I promise.” Spinning away from him, she turned her stool so she could face the dance floor and watch Chegg drool. Her shoulder, clad in its leather-like duster, brushed against Clint’s.

They sat for a moment in companionable silence, and then Dresden groaned. “He’s going to be _hours._ ”

Clint shrugged. “Next round’s on you.”

She grinned and leaned back to signal the bartender. “Sounds good.”

Clint smiled. Maybe helping Dresden hadn’t been such a bad idea after all. 

 

*

 

“Come on, baby, come on,” Phil Coulson muttered, willing his shuttle to keep moving as it limped through the Betazoid System. “Just a little further.”

_“Sta- _[crackle]_ -ase G-6 to _[crackle]_ -ederation shuttle. Come in, Federation shuttle.”_

Phil let out a relieved breath as he reached for his comm system. “Starbase G-6 this is the Federation Shuttle _Alexander._ I’m badly damaged and in need of repairs. Can you assist?”

_“Acknowledge Fed- _[crackle]_ -ation shuttle. We have repair facilities on board. Do you require medical _[crackle]_?”_

Phil shook his head, even though they couldn’t see him. “No thank you, Starbase G-6. It’s just my ship that’s damaged, not me.” Although by the time Fury got through with him, Phil knew he’d wish the asteroid that had struck him amidship had just killed him instead of frying his primary systems.

He’d already been reprimanded once for taking off against orders and going after Hawkeye, and that little escape had cost him a shuttle, too. What Fury was going to do when Phil reported that he’d lost the _Alexander_ , Phil didn’t even want to know.

Sighing to himself, Phil directed the last bit of emergency power towards the engines - he wouldn’t need life support once he reached Starbase G-6. “Hawkeye’s probably drinking in a bar by now, halfway across the quadrant,” he muttered. “When I find him I’m going to...”

He trailed off. It was an empty threat. Phil had been chasing the elusive mercenary for two years now, and the chance encounter on Betazed had been only the second time he’d ever seen the man face-to-face. 

It was ridiculous. Phil was a respected member of Starfleet Intelligence, a man who’d risen swiftly through the ranks for his ability to both follow procedure _and_ think outside the box. He’d taken the Hawkeye case with one eye on a promotion, knowing that stopping this mercenary would be a feather in his cap.

Instead he’d found himself stymied at every turn. Forget ‘outside the box’ - Hawkeye operated as if there _was_ no box. He refused the Orions, eschewed conventional weaponry, and avoided Phil’s meticulously planted setups as if they were obvious a parsec away. Phil had barely made any progress against him, managing to break only one simple code Hawkeye had developed with a particular fence, and utterly failing at any other.

It was maddening.

Phil was the first to admit that he might have become a little… obsessed. He always had other active cases on the go in addition to the Hawkeye file, but he’d fallen into the habit of staying up late after the other work was done, running the numbers and trying to estimate where Hawkeye was at that particular moment in time, and what he was doing. 

Another exercise he’d failed at. Phil had thought Hawkeye was in the old Cardassian territories, maybe taking a run at Velex Prime and the bounty on a known Ferengi informant there, but instead he’d shown up on Betazed in the middle of the Janaran jungle. 

Phil had been in system, heading to Starbase G-6 to rendezvous with the _U.S.S. Shield_ on Fury’s orders, when he’d intercepted the coded distress call from Betazed. He’d assumed from the description of the theft that a whole team had been involved, but coming across Hawkeye in the Janaran jungle had disproved that - he always worked alone.

Phil sighed and eked his ship a little closer towards Starbase G-6. Maybe Nick was right and he should take some time off to get his head screwed on straight, maybe visit his mother in New Orleans on Earth. They could go to _Sisko’s_ and have jambalaya. Phil would order it extra spicy. It would be his treat for not giving in and shooting Hawkeye when he had the chance.

The Betazoids would have killed him. Phil focused on that and not the small, traitorous part of his mind that winced at the thought of Hawkeye dead or injured. The man was a menace. It wasn’t Phil’s concern if he was impressive, intelligent, and handsome to boot.

Not his concern _at all._

Limping his way to the docking arm, Phil breathed out a sigh of relief as the clamps initialized and Starbase G-6 took control of his ship’s failing power. A line of code appeared on his console, informing him that a repair team had been contacted and would be arriving shortly. The base commander added a personal message welcoming him to Starbase G-6. 

Phil made a face and deleted the message. The _Alexander_ was a standard Federation shuttle, with nothing outward to signify it as being currently assigned to Starfleet Intelligence. He preferred to keep his occupation secret, and Jasper Sitwell _knew_ that.

Sometimes having friends was hard.

He’d probably try to get together while Phil was here, too. Maybe drag him off to Down Below, as if Phil had any intention of setting foot in a place where he’d have to feel like he was at work the entire time.

“I’m clearly far too busy,” Phil said out loud to the empty shuttlecraft. “Sitwell will just have to understand.”

Yeah, right.

A beep from his console caught Phil’s attention. He looked down to see a flashing message, informing him that gamma radiation had been detected. Phil blinked, then pulled out his personal padd and keyed in his biometric information, accessing the secure transmission he had been tasked with presenting to Captain Block. It was a notice from Federation Intelligence informing him that an increase in suspicious activity had been recorded, regarding subject matter relevant to his expressed interests. Phil knew from reading Block’s file that the man had been part of a secret subcommittee during his days as a lieutenant commander, a committee whose primary purpose had been subsequently redacted. 

Phil wasn’t privy to what the subcommittee’s role had been, but he _did_ have access to the code which mentioned their secret subject matter. Apparently, whoever was discussing this topic was doing so using a gamma radiation substitution cypher that Starfleet Intelligence had found easy to break.

Phil ran the code through his computer and analyzed the gamma radiation sequence the _Alexander_ ’s sensors had recorded. It was only one, short word. _‘Now.’_

Phil felt his adrenaline spike. Whoever was using the code Starfleet Intelligence had broken, they were _here_. 

Reaching behind him, Phil took a fully charged phaser from the rack to the left of the pilot’s seat and spared a moment to be thankful he’d changed into a clean uniform shortly after leaving the Rixx asteroid field. He debated some way of warning Sitwell, but he didn’t even know what he’d be warning Sitwell _of._ All he knew was, somewhere on this station, a plan had just kicked into motion.

Keying up his private datalink, Phil sent Sitwell a link to the gamma radiation and a quick translation of the code. _On site and investigating. Details to follow._

“At least that’s something,” Phil muttered to himself as he opened the door of his shuttle and stepped aboard Starbase G-6. As he did, he grimaced. If there was anything suspicious taking place on this station, it was probably happening in Down Below. 

“Sitwell should have set fire to that Orion Pit the moment he took office,” he groused. Well, now it was Phil’s problem. He squared his shoulders and set off down the station. He could only hope he arrived in time.

 

*

 

“Oh, stars, _finally,_ ” Dresden said, tipping her head back to polish off her fourth ale. She pushed the empty glass behind her in the direction of the bartender and stood. Clint watched her jealously. He’d been nursing his second drink because he couldn’t afford to get drunk right now, and here she was, three ahead of him and she wasn’t even staggering. “I’m surprised he’s not dehydrated, going by the puddle on the floor in front of him.”

Clint followed her gaze to Chegg, who was just stumbling away from the dance floor. His eyes were still glassy, but he looked marginally more himself than he had while watching the Orion’s. “He’s heading for the bar, so he’s probably thirsty,” Clint agreed. 

Dresden huffed irritably and pushed her way through the other patrons. Most made way for her, taking one glance at her freakish height and blazing expression and quickly scurrying out of her way. “Chegg,” she said, sliding into the suddenly empty seat next to the Bolian. “Ready to have a polite discussion now?”

He turned towards her, blinking owlishly. “Dresden?” he said, slurring slightly, and then straightening in his chair. “Dresden!”

She raised her hands, palms open. “Quiet, Chegg. I’m not going to hurt you. Just tell me what it is I want to know.”

Clint tuned them out as he looked again around the bar. He was still waiting for his contact to arrive, a short, weasely looking Tellarite in tan furs. Javarth Los was a minor businessman who’d found it much more profitable to sell stolen items rather than legitimate ones. The famous Tellarite red tape might have had something to do with that, since as Tellarites loved to argue, contacting the regional government with complaints regarding the fiendishly difficult trade rules was something of a win-lose scenario.

Los had often found himself in the ‘lose’ column, and had given up. Now he focused his complaints on Clint, and the other smugglers he often dealt with.

“What do you mean you don’t know who paid you?” Dresden argued, her voice rising above the din. “Hells’ bells, Chegg.”

He hushed her, eyes darting nervously around the bar, somewhat more awake but clearly still suggestible if Dresden was making headway. She grumbled, but lowered her voice, and Clint shook his head. Honestly, what had the Bolian been thinking, coming here…

Probably that Dresden wouldn’t dare follow him.

The double doors opened, and Los finally shuffled in. Clint caught his eye when he looked around, and indicated the now empty seat beside him. Los shook his head, irritated, but headed Clint’s way, pulling his fur coat more securely around his shoulders as he did.

“Brr, this station is freezing, what did they set the temperature at, negative sixty Kelvin?” Los complained, taking a moment to climb aboard the stool. All Tellarites were short, but Los was even smaller than most. He made up for it with his big mouth, though. “This place is too crowded, the light is too dim, and my hooves are icicles.” He glared up at Clint from inside his furs. “You’ve gotten uglier since I’ve seen you last.”

Clint smiled, well used to Los. “How was the flight in?”

“Terrible,” Los groused, and Clint signaled the bartender for his regular hot Tellarite tea with bourbon while Los grumbled about his horrible freighter, the awful journey, and the money he expected to lose on this venture. “Why did you want to see me, anyway?” Los asked. “If it’s not worthwhile, I’m taking it out of your next cut.”

Clint frowned, sliding Los his tea. “What are you talking about? You called me.”

Los peered at him over the rim of his cup. “No I didn’t. I was safe and warm in the Kelarian Cluster, with my hooves soaking in salt spring baths that were far too hot for my comfort, but better than this hellish, freezing place. You said you had the score of the year for me to fence.”

Clint froze, his eyes darting around the bar. It was crowded, like usual, and Dresden was still interrogating Chegg a few seats away. No one looked at him funny or stood out suspiciously, but Clint was instantly on guard. There _were_ two Nausicaans in the corner, and everyone knew the big, brutish aliens were often hired for their muscle. 

“Go,” he said to Los, standing up from his seat and watching the crowd. “We’ve been set up. Something’s wrong. _Go._ ”

Los, proving why he was the most successful fence this side of the galaxy, slid off his stool and hurried towards the exit without a backwards glance. Clint checked that the pack on his back was still secure, and glanced around the bar again.

Several times in his life Clint had found himself at a crossroads, and whenever that happened, he always followed his instincts. This time he slipped the pack of his shoulders, reached inside, and carefully removed the treasure he’d stolen on Betazed. Leaning over the bar as if to get the bartender’s attention, Clint slipped the short, well-wrapped object under the lip of the bar, and felt it tumble softly into a box of some kind. That bartender was distracted by another customer, and while Clint felt a sharp pang of worry that he might not be able to come back for it later, or that the treasure might be discovered, he knew it was more important to keep it safe.

When he sat back down in his stool again, Dresden looked over. She’d either noticed him move, or could see that he was worried, or - more likely - she’d gotten all that she could out of her Bolian. Leaving Chegg looking shaken and miserable, she walked back towards Clint. “What’s wrong?”

Clint looked at her. Could it be Dresden? No - no one could have predicted that he would help her, he hadn’t even known it himself. It had to be someone else…

He looked over the bar and swallowed. If it was Coulson, then Clint was screwed. The Starfleet Intelligence officer would have planned this down to the last detail.

“I’m in trouble,” Clint explained to Dresden softly, knowing his voice would barely be audible in the din of the bar. “Someone set me up, and I don’t know - ”

“Hey,” a rough, nasally voice interrupted, the word more of a bark. “You Hawkeye?”

Moving slowly, Clint turned. Watching him from three feet away were the Nausicaans - big, burly, physically intimidating aliens with short, snout noses and dark, beady eyes. Their hands hovered near their belts, where they each wore a blaster and a thick, serrated knife.

“That depends on who’s asking,” Clint replied carefully.

There was only one door in Down Below, and it was at least twenty steps away. The bar was crowded, and the Nausicaans stood between him and the exit.

He’d never make it.

“We’re asking,” the second Nausicaan grunted. 

“Yeah, but who do you work for?” Dresden asked. Clint looked over at her in surprise. Shouldn’t she be gone by now? This was clearly going to end badly. Instead of walking away, though, she just crossed her arms over her chest and glared. “Everyone knows Nausicaans hire out their muscles for brains.”

She wasn’t wrong. Nausicaans were among the more well known bounty hunters in the galaxy. The problem was, the bounties they brought in were usually dead, dismembered, or worse. 

Clint hoped this wasn’t Coulson. He knew the man must hate him, but he hoped he didn’t want him dead.

The Nausicaans growled. “That’s not for stupid girls to know,” one rumbled. “Go away, stupid girl. We’ve got business to discuss.”

Dresden’s eyes blazed, and Clint stepped in front of her. “Okay, everybody just hang on a second. There’s no need to go insulting the Federation. Why don’t we just step to the side and have a nice chat, just the three of us? No one needs to get hurt.” Dresden was going to get herself stabbed, with that mouth on her. He needed to keep her safe.

“Excuse me,” a voice interrupted. “If I may be of some assistance?”

Clint turned. He was surprised to see a tallish older gentleman with grey-streaked temples step forward. The man was of medium build, with strong shoulders and a waist he clearly refused to let turn into a paunch. His mouth was set, his expression firm but polite, and there was some emotion Clint couldn’t name behind his steel-grey eyes.

What most caught his attention, though, was his uniform - command red with four gold pips at the collar. 

“Captain Block!” Dresden said, surprised. “What are you doing here?”

Captain Block smiled, a distant, slightly paternal expression. “I was here to get a drink, Harriet; Commander Romanova recommended the Russian vodka.” His expression turned icy. “I didn’t expect to run into someone insulting my Chief Engineer.”

Dresden grimaced. “Sorry to disturb your time off, sir.”

“Oh no.” Block waved her concern away. “This is much more important. Now,” he said, fixing his gaze on the Nausicaans. “What seems to be the problem?”

The first Nausicaan grunted. “Your officer not important. Only him important.” He thrust his chin at Clint. “She can go.”

Block turned and looked Clint over, scanning him from head to toe, his gaze capturing the collapsible bow on his wrist and the pack still on his back. “And what’s your interest in this gentleman?”

Clint shook his head. “Don’t worry about me. You guys go, I can handle this.”

Dresden started to say something, but Block stepped forward and touched her shoulder. “Is this gentleman a friend, Harriet?”

Dresden nodded. “Yes, sir, he is.”

Clint blinked, surprised. “No, I - ” He turned to Block. “I just met her today.”

“And he helped me when he didn’t have to,” Dresden went on, stubbornly. “That means something.”

Block nodded slowly. “Indeed it does, as does the fact that he’s a human, and therefore a member of the Federation. I’m sorry, gentlemen,” Block said, turning to face the Nausicaans, “but you’ll have to leave.”

The second Nausicaan opened his mouth, but the first spoke before his friend could get the words out. “This isn’t your bar, human. You don’t give the orders here.”

Clint shook his head, forcing his mind away from the reflexive _I’m not part of your Federation,_ and focusing on the Nausicaans instead. “You should listen to him.”

“Oh, should I?” the first Nausicaan growled. His hand twitched towards his belt, and Clint curled his toes inside his boots. He wouldn’t be accused of shooting first, but he couldn’t let Dresden or Captain Block or anyone else pay the price for him falling into this trap.

Suddenly, the doors opened. Clint looked away from the Nausicaans for a second to see the man he’d been dreading hurrying across the bar towards them.

Surprisingly, Coulson’s eyes widened when he caught glimpse of Clint. “Hawkeye,” he said, drawing a fully charged phaser. “I might have known.”

“Coulson,” Clint said, wary. “So this _is_ you.”

“Is me what?” Coulson asked, his eyes darting from the Nausicaans, to Dresden, to Captain Block. His expression tightened. “I’m here because I picked up a gamma radiation substitution code.”

Clint gestured to the Nausicaans. “So you didn’t hire them?”

Coulson met Clint’s eyes. “No, I didn’t.”

A wave of relief swept him. Maybe there was still a chance they’d get out of this alive.

All of them.

“I suggest you leave, gentlemen,” Captain Block said. He must have felt the same hope, because he took a step towards Clint in an apparent show of solidarity. “Leave and never come back.”

The Nausicaans stared at them, four humans strong and not backing down, and must have decided they were getting paid enough for the risk. They shook their heads.

“He’s coming with us,” the first Nausicaan said, and pointed at Clint. With no more warning than that, they attacked. 

Clint stepped backwards. The first Nausicaan leapt for Coulson. He fired reflexively, but the Nausicaan just shook off the stun blast, pulled the knife from his belt, and kept coming.

The second Nausicaan lunged at Dresden. She clearly hadn’t been expecting the move, and stumbled back, falling into Block who likewise tumbled into Clint. Clint swayed, but kept his feet, noting dimly that something was tugging at his pack.

It would only be a distraction anyways. “Here,” Clint said, slipping the bag off his back and thrusting it at Captain Block. “Hold this.” 

The Captain looked surprised, but did as Clint asked. With his hands free, Clint triggered the quick-release latch on his wrist and grinned as his bow sprung fully formed into his hands. He drew two arrows and notched them with the speed that had made him a legend in the circus, and took aim at the Nausicaans. “Coulson, get _down!_ ” 

Surprisingly, Coulson dropped the moment Clint told him to, unbalancing the Nausicaan he’d been grappling with. Clint shot an arrow into the Nausicaan’s shoulder, and another into his knee. The Nausicaan howled, and Clint turned his lips up in a feral grin. The Nausicaan armour might be legendary, but it had several weak spots, and Clint knew them all.

His good humour didn’t last for long. The Nausicaan who had jumped at Dresden changed focus and ran at Clint. Around them, the bar was emptying quickly, patrons sucking in screams and hurrying to the door. Clint ignored the chaos and focused on the Nausicaan rushing towards him. He seemed intent on tearing Clint’s head off. 

Clint put two arrows into the Nausicaan’s chest, both solidly to the left of his five-chambered heart, but designed to hurt nonetheless. Surprisingly, the alien just shook his head and kept coming. Clint yelped and stumbled backwards, but the bar was just behind him, limiting his escape.

The Nausicaan was almost on him. Twin stun blasts struck him, but he shook them off. Clint wasn’t sure who was shooting, but it didn’t seem to matter - the Nausicaan pulled a wicked looking blade from his waist and rushed at Clint. Desperately, Clint shifted his bow to a two-handed grip, grunting as he blocked the Nausicaan’s attack. The Nausicaan was horribly strong, and it took everything Clint had to stop him. Clint shoved him back, but couldn’t push him very far away. With another snarl, the Nausicaan rushed him again.

The _bzzt!_ of a standard issue Starfleet phaser set to kill pierced the din. The Nausicaan stopped, looking surprised as a hole appeared in the centre of his chest. He looked backwards to find Coulson standing behind him with his phaser ready for a second blast.

The Nausicaan tried to say something, but his face seemed frozen in a rictus of shock. He toppled forwards, and then lay unmoving on the floor.

“AARGGGH!” the second Nausicaan screamed. He leapt up from the floor, his hands outstretched towards Coulson.

Clint quickly shifted his bow back to a one-handed grip and nocked two arrows at once. He was prepared to shoot, and to shoot to kill, but Captain’s Block sudden lurch distracted him.

“Wait!” Block shouted. He stepped forward, still holding Clint’s bag.

The Nausicaan snarled and spun towards him. In a move too fast to counter, he quickly drew the disruptor pistol hung on his belt, and shot.

Captain Block staggered once, and then was gone. Nothing but vapour remained.

He’d been disintegrated.

Clint stared in mute horror at the place where the captain had been only seconds before. He felt more than heard Dresden’s sudden indrawing of shocked breath.

Turning back towards the Nausicaan, Clint raised his bow and growled. “You’re going to pay for that.”

The Nausicaan met his gaze with a snarl. Raising his pistol, he turned it unexpectedly upon himself.

“For honour,” the Nausicaan said. He fired.

When the burst of light faded, he was gone. Clint blinked to find himself staring at an empty floor panel, a starburst of ash twin to the one where Captain Block had been standing.

“I can’t believe it,” Dresden said, sounding shaken, staring up from the floor. “They’re gone.”


	3. Chapter Three

“That’s all I know,” Phil said for the third time, doing his best to keep the fatigue and irritability from his voice. He’d done his share of murder investigations, and knew how the same questions needed to be asked over and over and over again. He’d never had this much sympathy for the witnesses before. He wished he still didn’t.

The look Lieutenant Commander Cage gave him was sympathetic despite the fact that he knew he was maintaining his standard poker face. Phil had been having a feeling that she was a Betazoid, and that confirmed it. It was all in the eyes.

“So you have no idea why the Nausicaans were after this mercenary known as ‘Hawkeye?’” Cage asked again. 

Phil shook his head. They were still sitting in the bar, the area where Captain Block had been killed safe behind the shimmer of a force field. Phil sat along the back wall with the rest of the witnesses - including the unusually tall Starfleet woman in the black duster, and a half-dozen other bar patrons. Hawkeye was nowhere to be seen.

Of course.

Phil didn’t know when he might have taken off. Hawkeye had always moved with almost supernatural agility, and the minutes after Block had been killed and the Nausicaan committed suicide had certainly been full of enough confusion. 

Down Below was going to want to reopen soon. Phil could hear Jasper arguing with the Orions by the entrance, a full face-mask protecting him from the dangerous swirl of pheromones circulating around the preternaturally beautiful aliens. He was standing his ground, at least for now. Phil wondered dimly how long he could keep it up.

“I don’t know,” he answered honestly. His brain was getting sluggish, the long day and the longer night catching up with him. What time was it, anyway? 

“You said before that you’d recently run into him on Betazed,” Cage went on doggedly. “What was he doing there?”

“Making a nuisance of myself,” Hawkeye said suddenly.

Phil blinked and looked up. “What?”

There was no way the mercenary was here. Phil must be hallucinating things. 

“Hi,” Hawkeye said. He slipped onto the stool next to Phil, brushing their shoulders together as if they were something like friends and not mortal enemies. He certainly _felt_ real enough. He was still wearing the casual brown trader's clothes he had been when Phil had seen him on Betazed, and then again in Down Below. There was a faint shadow on his cheeks now, a pale hint of fuzz, and his eyes were sad, even if they were still warm and vibrant.

Phil narrowed his eyes, spine straightening. “What are you doing here?”

Hawkeye shrugged. He obviously meant for the move to look casual, but it came out guilty. “A man is dead, Coulson, and it’s my fault. What did you expect me to do - run?”

“Yes,” Phil said, without quite being aware that his mouth was moving. 

Hawkeye looked hurt.

“What?” Phil defended himself. “I did!”

“Well that goes to show what you know,” Hawkeye said, turning resolutely away from Phil and offering Cage his hand. “Clint Barton,” he said. “At your service.”

Phil bristled. “Is that your real name?”

Hawkeye turned back to him.

“Don’t give me that,” Phil snapped. “It’s a legitimate question.” 

“Then for your information, _Phil,_ ” Hawkeye said, as if to emphasize what he knew and Phil didn’t, “yes, it _is_ my real name.”

Phil didn’t blink. “Your real name is Clint Barton?”

Hawkeye held his gaze. “Yes.”

“Oh.” He didn’t know what else to say. A possessive twist wrenched his stomach, the fact that he’d been chasing Hawkeye for _two years_ and he had never known his real name.

Hawkeye - no, Barton - eyed him a moment more, and then turned back to Cage. “So - yeah, um. I have no idea why those guys were after me. I only know that someone set me up.”

Cage looked interested. “How so?”

Barton shrugged and explained about the fence who he thought had called for the meeting. “Only when he got here, we realized that neither of us had set it up. The job was a fake.”

Phil frowned. “Wait - was that Los?”

Barton looked over at him, surprised. “Yeah. Why?”

“Because that was the one code that I’d cracked on your file,” Phil explained, an awful feeling settling into his stomach. “The only one.”

Barton stared at him. He paled as the implication set in. “How many people know that you cracked it?”

Phil shook his head. “Only those with Starfleet Intelligence security access.”

Barton swallowed. 

“Do you mean to tell me,” Cage interrupted, “that you were set up for a job on Betazed by someone who either had access to - or who managed to hack into - the Starfleet Intelligence computer database?”

Barton nodded slowly. “I guess I am.”

Cage blew out a breath. “Just making sure.” She shook her head. “So what was the job on Betazed?”

Barton winced. “The job I was paid to do?”

“Which was?” Cage pressed.

Barton looked at Phil, as if for help. Phil just crossed his arms and glared. “You tell her. You’re the one who decided to take it in the first place.” First real names, and now Barton had apparently accepted a fake job from someone when he’d successfully avoided all of Phil’s set ups with ease.

He wasn’t bitter. _At all._

“It was Rixx,” Barton admitted, turning back to Cage. “The Sacred Chalice of Rixx.”

“What?!” Cage’s voice raised briefly against the din of the bar. Over by the door, both the Orions and Jasper looked over. Cage quickly lowered her voice and leaned towards Barton. “You - ?”

Barton nodded, looking sheepish. “I stole it,” he admitted. “The Chalice, that is.”

“But,” Cage protested. “It was under heavy guard, at the Janaran Sanctuary on Betazed! Ambassador Troi delivered it there herself in the opening days of the Dominion Occupation!”

“Yes, she did, and it was, until this morning,” Barton explained. “They really did a good job,” he went on hurriedly. “The security was really tough to crack!”

Cage narrowed her eyes. “Obviously not tough enough.” She stretched out her hand. “Well, where it is? Turn it over to me, now.”

Barton glanced back towards the bar. “Umm.”

“Well?” Cage demanded.

Phil thought back to the short fight, and remembered with a slowly dawning horror the bag Block had been holding when he’d been killed. “Oh my god.”

Cage turned to him. “What?”

Phil met her eyes. “It’s gone. Block was holding it when he was killed.”

Cage’s eyes widened. “Do you mean that Captain Block was holding the Sacred Chalice of Rixx when he was vaporized?”

Barton opened his mouth. “Well - ”

Phil kept his gaze on Cage, swallowing heavily. “I’m sorry.” 

Cage blinked. “It - you - That was the _Sacred Chalice of Rixx!_ Do you have _any_ idea of the history, the weight of responsibility, the staggering _loss_ of what has happened here, tonight?” She looked livid.

Barton was shaking his head. “No, wait.”

Cage whirled on him. “Don’t say another word! I’m going to haul you into custody so fast you’ll - ” She stopped, blinked. “What?”

Barton’s face was pinched, his eyes locked on Cage’s. After a moment, her shoulders loosened, and she exhaled. “It’s safe?”

Phil sat up. “Wait, what?”

Barton broke eye contact with Cage to look over at Phil. “It’s okay. Block didn’t have the Chalice.”

Phil frowned, thinking back. “But - ”

“He had the bag,” Barton explained, “but not the Chalice.” Standing, Barton crossed the bar, heading towards the stool where he’d been sitting earlier. Leaning over the bar - and giving Phil an impressive view of his ass, which made Phil blush, glance momentarily at Cage, and then look away again - Clint rummaged under the lip for a moment before coming up with a carefully wrapped package. “Aha!”

Cage flattened her lips and held out her hand, waiting until Barton placed the package in it. Taking a deep breath, she then unwrapped it carefully, holding the Chalice gently as the final piece of packing material came away.

“See?” Barton said smugly, raising an eyebrow at Phil. “You were right, I wrapped it appropriately.”

Whatever reply Phil would have made was stolen by the primitive beauty of the Chalice. It was clearly an ancient artifact, a stone bowl and stone lid, both hand-carved and decorated with symbols. Phil didn’t know any of the Betazoid language, but he thought the swirling carvings were beautiful. “I’ve never seen it in person before.”

Cage shook her head. “Not many have,” she said reverently, her attention fixed on the Chalice. “It is one of the most holy treasures we have, the only remnant of our lost sister planet Rixx, destroyed over four thousand years ago by our folly and conceit.” She swallowed, and then re-wrapped the treasure, holding it carefully in both hands. Looking up at Barton, she glared. “This is staying with me.”

Barton nodded vigorously. “Yes, absolutely. It’s all yours.”

She narrowed her eyes. “This doesn’t mean you’re off the hook for stealing it.”

“It doesn’t?” Barton asked with a wince.

Surprisingly, the corner of her mouth ticked up into a smile. Phil wondered what thoughts were going through Barton’s head that would provoke such an expression. “No,” she went on, “it doesn’t, but it does mean that I’m inclined to look slightly more favourably on you. Cooperate completely with my investigation, and we’ll see.” 

Barton exhaled roughly. “Okay. Thank you.”

She smiled again. “You’re welcome, but don’t even _think_ about leaving Starbase G-6. I’m going to have very many questions for you.” With that, she turned and walked away.

Barton slumped forward the moment she was gone. “I’m going to die in prison.”

Phil chuckled. “Probably.”

Barton turned his head and glared up at him from under his lashes. “Yeah, go ahead and laugh,” he said petulantly. “You’ve always wanted to see me clapped in irons.”

Phil narrowed his eyes. “After that stunt on Regor Eight, I should want to see you dead.”

Barton winced. “True.”

“But,” Phil relented, wavering, and finally giving in and laying a hand very gently on Barton’s back, “I never did. Prison will be enough.” He shook his head. “What were you _thinking,_ stealing the Sacred Chalice of Rixx?”

Barton made a face. “It was that, or assassinate the governor of Belanus Five,” he grumbled. “Both jobs offered the same amount, and _Lola_ needed parts, bad.” He glanced at Phil, then bit his cheek and looked away. “I didn’t want to have to kill anybody,” he mumbled.

Phil blinked. He’d always known that Hawkeye took other jobs in addition to just assassination, but he’d never thought the man behind the moniker might hate to kill. “You took out the ringleaders of Alaina Seven easily enough,” he pointed out.

Barton shrugged. “Yeah, but they were jackasses, did you see the slaves they had trussed up in the back room of their ‘revolution headquarters?’” His face turned hard. “I’d kill them again.” He loosened. “But the governor hadn’t done anything wrong, just pissed off the wrong people, and that’s no reason to win an arrow to the face.” 

“So by choosing the contracts you take, you’d - what? Dispense justice?” Phil asked. ‘Hawkeye’ was turning out to be more complicated - and more compelling - than he’d realized. “That’s not your job.”

“Isn’t it?” Barton challenged. “I’ve got to eat, we don’t all live in your magical ‘Federation,’ you know.” 

Phil opened his mouth to argue, but he was saved from responding by a sharp commotion coming from the front of the bar.

“Let us through! Let us through! I’ll cut off power to this entire deck, don’t think I won’t!”

Phil looked to see a short, mousy-haired man with a decidedly less than mousy expression physically push his way into the bar. He barrelled past Jasper with his arms out in front of him, moving his body awkwardly, as if he walked beside another, somehow completely invisible, person. 

“McKay!” someone snapped, chasing him. It was a man of average height, with blonde hair. His starfleet uniform was trimmed in operations gold. “This is an ongoing murder investigation.”

The man called McKay ignored him, pushing forward until he was physically stopped by the hum of the force field. He flinched when it sparked in front of him, but otherwise ignored it, eyes fixed on the spot where Captain Block had died.

“He’s really gone,” McKay mumbled. He looked ashen, his pale skin even whiter than it should have been. He was clearly human, and Starfleet - his blue uniform signifying either science or medical, and the pips at his collar proclaiming him a Lieutenant Commander in rank. 

Cage moved towards him just as the blonde operations officer put a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“He’s really gone,” the man said, sounding kinder now. “I’m sorry.”

“He was an ass,” McKay said, sniffling. “An arrogant ass - but then, so am I. He was a bigot, I know that. Still. He always stood up for me.”

“He liked you,” the man agreed.

Cage strode forward. “Lieutenant Snow, Lieutenant Commander McKay, I’m Lieutenant Commander Danielle Cage, the new Security Chief. As Starbase G-6 has a minimal security force here at present, I’m taking charge of this investigation.”

Snow snapped to attention, while McKay looked startled. “Right,” he said. “Sorry.” He looked from her to the room at large. “I just... had to see.”

“I understand,” Cage said, not unkindly. “Still, I need to ask you to leave. We don’t know how much longer we’ll have with the scene.”

“I can help take a holographic image of the bar,” McKay said quickly, “if that would help.”

“McKay…” Snow started, but Cage was already nodding.

“That would be very useful, Lieutenant Commander,” she said. “Thank you.”

The Orion female who’d been arguing with Jasper must have heard this, because she strode over, waltzing past Jasper’s outstretched hand. “If you can take a representation, then you can go. We have customers who are waiting to spend money.”

Cage kept her voice level. “I understand that, ma’am; however, we’re still waiting for our chief medical officer to arrive.”

The Orion woman made a face. “A medical officer? Why?” She waved at the patterns of ash. “Everyone is dead.”

Phil tensed, and felt the other Starfleet officers around him also stiffen. To her credit, Cage’s voice remained steady. “Yes, they are, but we still have to examine the remains.”

The Orion rolled her eyes. “There are no remains. Take the Nausicaan’s body and go.”

“Actually, that’s not entirely true,” a voice said. Phil looked over to see a man walking into the bar. He was human, thin and tall, with dark, slick hair with pale skin. His voice was accented - English, Phil thought - and he was wearing a Starfleet uniform trimmed in blue. A grey case with _Starfleet Medical_ embossed on the front hung from one hand. “There are often remnants left when a person has been disintegrated. These can be retrieved using the right tools.” He put down his case, and turned to McKay. “Rodney,” he said with a bow. “I am sorry for your loss.”

McKay scowled. “Oh, stuff it, Pitch. You never liked him.”

“I never said I did,” Doctor Pitch - he had to be the _U.S.S. Shield_ ’s medical officer - said calmly. “Still, I can recognize and appreciate grief in others.”

“Even if you can never understand it yourself?” Snow snapped.

Phil looked at him in surprise. The formerly kind expression was gone, and the security officer looked livid. His hands were clenched into fists at his sides. 

Doctor Pitch shot Snow a look filled with disdain, but Phil thought he caught a flash of hurt lurking beneath it. “If that’s what you want to believe,” he said, and then turned back towards Lieutenant Commander Cage. “Sir? If you’ll lower the force field please, I’d like to examine what I can.”

Cage stared at the newcomer for a moment, an unreadable expression on her face, but then nodded and pressed a button on her tricorder. The force field came down with a gentle shimmer, and Pitch stepped forward. Cage raised it again the moment he was inside.

“Hmm,” Pitch said, lowering himself gracefully to the ground and examining the starburst patterns of ash. “Very interesting.”

“Get on with it,” Snow said. He made as if to start forward, but Cage shot him a look, and he stopped. 

“I am, I am,” Pitch said loftily. “Precision takes time, you know. Of course, rush-now, think-later security officers would hardly understand that.” He looked up to shoot Lieutenant Commander Cage a brilliant smile. “No offence, of course.”

“Of course,” she said, a wry smile twisting her lips despite the circumstances. Phil shook his head. 

It didn’t take Pitch long to collect his samples. McKay had some equipment beamed over from the ship and they took a holographic representation of the scene, and then barely less than an hour later they were all escorted - none-too-gently - to the door, and the Orions kicked them out. Phil found himself standing in the corridor, blinking tiredly, as the various Starfleet officers caught transporter beams to different destinations.

“You’re coming with me,” Lieutenant Commander Cage said, walking quickly towards Barton. “I still have a lot of questions for you.”

Barton looked exhausted, but nodded gamely. Phil somehow found himself stepping forward. “I agree that our discussion needs to be continued,” he said, “but could I suggest a recess? I know Mr. Barton and I have both had a long day.”

Cage narrowed her eyes at them both, but then she sighed. “Yes, you’re right.” She looked at Barton, her gaze intense, but somehow less angry than before. “You promise not to leave without telling me?”

He nodded. “I promise.”

She exhaled gustily. “Very well then. Good night then, gentlemen. I’ll be in contact with you both tomorrow.” She smiled. “I’d ask about finding you a place to stay, but I’m not even sure I can find my own room right now. I was in the middle of a tour when we got the call, you know.”

Barton winced. “What a welcome.”

She shrugged. “It is what it is. It might be easier this way, actually. I had no time to get to know the Captain.”

Phil nodded. “That might be true. Anyway, I’ll have to see someone about a bunk. My shuttle’s in poor shape.”

Barton turned to him with a frown. “What? Why?”

Phil shot him a look. “Because I was hit by an asteroid while I was chasing you through the - oh right - _asteroid field._ ”

Barton winced. “Right. So - what are you going to do? You aren’t staying with me.”

Phil glared, ignoring how much that hurt. “I know.”

“I mean,” Barton said quickly, as if trying to backpedal, “I just - ”

“I’ll find them something,” the unusually tall woman with the black duster said, staggering her way towards them. She was holding an ice pack against her head, where an already large goose-egg was blossoming. “Harry Dresden, Chief Engineer,” she said, with a nod towards Cage and Phil. “Pleased to meet you.”

Cage nodded back. “Thank you, Chief Dresden,” she said. “I appreciate it.”

Dresden winced. “Just ‘Harry,’ please. Or ‘Chief.’ I like ‘Chief.’” She grinned. “Of course, some people call me ‘Wizard.’”

Cage smiled. “I think I’ll stick with Harry, thank you.” 

Dresden shot her a grin, and then turned to Phil and Barton. “This way, boys. I happen to know that the quarters next to mine are empty, at least for now. The Ph.D. student who was there has left for greener pastures. Let’s get you beamed up to the ship and we’ll get everything settled.” She glanced at Barton and then back at Cage. “Maybe you should stay on the ship for now, Clint. In a show of good faith?”

Barton nodded slowly. “I can do that,” he said, not looking at Phil.

Phil thought about opening his mouth, but didn’t know what he’d say. Did that mean that Barton really had been thinking about running? Or was he just uncomfortable with the idea that he’d be rooming with Phil?

Phil glanced at Cage, who had a neutral expression on her face. Sometimes he’d give a lot to be a Betazoid.

“This way,” Dresden said, pointing down the corridor. “We’ve set up transporter locations to make things easier on the security team.”

Together Phil and Barton nodded and stepped next to Dresden, who triggered her communicator. As they did, a woman walked by - human, with porcelain skin and fiery red hair, wearing a Starfleet uniform edged in command red.

“Nat?” Barton asked, sounding startled.

The woman walked by without acknowledging them. Phil looked at Barton with a frown.

He watched the woman go, and then shook his head. “Never mind,” he said. “Let’s go.”

 

*

 

“Commander Romanova,” Admiral Nick Fury said, leaning closer towards the display screen and clasping his hands in front of him. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you, sir,” Natasha said, keeping her hands behind her back and her spine straight. “Your sentiment is appreciated.”

It was hard to know what else to say. She hadn’t particularly liked Captain Block, but then she’d never wished the man dead, either. He was simply a typical Federation captain - strong, sure, arrogant, and dumb. He’d had neither her admiration, nor her respect, but he had done his job and he’d kept some of the weight of responsibility off her shoulders. She could be thankful for that.

He’d been a terrible bigot, of course, but he’d also stood fast by the people he found useful. His treatment of Rodney McKay was one instance in which she found herself in agreement. But other than that…

No, she would not miss him. She would, of course, avenge him.

“How does the investigation go?”

Admiral Fury sighed. “Your new security chief has done an excellent job summarizing the facts and investigating the scene. Unfortunately, the culprit is dead and their associate is also - Doctor Pitch’s examination of the second Nausicaan revealed no clues of interest. There was no hint regarding who hired them or why the conflict turned so deadly, so fast.”

Natasha nodded. She’d expected as much. “I see. What happens now?”

“That is what I wanted to speak to you about,” Admiral Fury said, leaning back. “I understand that both Lieutenant Commander Coulson and the mercenary known as ‘Hawkeye’ are still aboard?”

“Yes, sir,” Natasha confirmed. “They’ve been undergoing questioning by Lieutenant Commander Cage, and have been fully compliant with our investigation.” She allowed herself not one twitch when Clint’s name was mentioned. “Even the mercenary has shown no determination to escape.”

Fury nodded. “I’m glad to hear that. I’d like to speak with both of them in a moment, if I could. Could you call them please?”

“Both of them, sir?” Natasha asked, startled.

“Yes, Commander.”

“Very well.” She turned away from the screen for a moment and triggered her comlink. “Commander Cage? I’d like both Lieutenant Commander Coulson and the man known as Hawkeye in Captain Block’s ready room, please.”

She was using the ready room because it had a private computer terminal with a direct line to Starfleet. The room itself made her uncomfortable - this was still Block’s space, and had been for years. It was evident in the decor on the walls, full of ancient Earth sailing vessels and leatherbound books, and one particularly heavy oil painting of the Great Bridge of London. 

It made her itch.

Her comlink chirped, Cage acknowledging the request. Fury must have heard it, because he nodded. “Thank you, Commander. Now, there is one more thing I wish to discuss with you before they arrive.”

“Yes, sir?” Natasha asked.

Fury met her gaze. He was probably in his office at Starfleet Headquarters, in San Francisco on Earth. They were half a galaxy apart, but the transmission was nearly instantaneous. “What are your thoughts regarding the _U.S.S. Shield_?”

Natasha allowed herself a blink of surprise. “My thoughts? Well, sir, it’s a good ship - getting older now, and certainly worn, but solid in her bones. Her crew is excellent - young officers, mainly, with the last transfers we’ve had.” She frowned. “Her next Captain will need to appreciate that - this isn’t the ship that fought in the Dominion War, not anymore. She’s evolved.”

“A frank and accurate assessment,” Fury agreed. “What do you think of taking command of her?”

Her pulse jumped. “Me?”

His gaze never wavered. “Yes.”

“But I - ” Natasha could feel her stomach clenching. “I’ve only been a first officer for six months, sir.”

Fury nodded. “That’s true.”

Natasha picked her next words carefully. “Captain Block’s reports regarding my aptitude could not have been… glowing.”

Fury smiled. “They were not. In fact, they often commented on the fact that he found you cold, stand-offish, and difficult to read.”

Natasha couldn’t help but feel offended, even though she knew he hadn’t been wrong. “There you have it.”

Surprisingly, Fury shook his head. “On the contrary, one thing I found most interesting about Captain Block’s reports is the information he left _out_ \- for example, you passed the first officer's exam with flying colours, and your crewmates speak highly of you.” 

Natasha frowned. “They do?”

He nodded. “Very much so. Besides,” he went on, “I’ve often found the best test of character is to keep piling on responsibility until someone either breaks or calls ‘uncle’.” He stared at her. “Are you calling ‘uncle’, Commander?”

She blinked. Command was what Natasha had been training her entire life for, but she didn’t feel ready. Still, she was not the kind of woman who backed down from a dare. “No, sir.”

“Very good, then,” Fury said with a nod. “I’ll sign the papers in a moment, once we get to that second matter I mentioned. Ah,” he looked over Natasha’s shoulder at the sound of the chime. “That’s probably them now.”

Natasha turned and walked towards the door. Sure enough, when it opened there was Phil Coulson and Clint - the former looking calm and unruffled; the latter darting a glance at her whenever he could.

So unsubtle. Honestly, had the man learned nothing?

“This way, gentlemen,” Natasha said, leading the way back to the computer station. “I have Admiral Fury on the line.”

Coulson straightened, his shoulders going stiff. “Sir,” he said, when they were in view of the screen. 

“Coulson,” Fury acknowledged, nodding. “How are they treating you?”

“Very good, sir,” Coulson told him. Natasha recalled that Admiral Fury was also the Director of Starfleet Intelligence, as well as in control of this sector of space. The Dominion War had forced most admirals to wear several hats. “The ship is a good one.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” Fury told him, “since I’m here to ask if you’d remain aboard.”

Coulson frowned. “Sir?”

Fury sighed. “Look at it this way, Cheese - you took off after Hawkeye - again - got your ship destroyed - _again_ \- and ended up shooting a Nausicaan in a bar fight.” He spread his hands. “And now a Starfleet Captain is dead.”

“Admiral,” Clint said urgently, stepping forward. “None of that was Lieutenant Commander Coulson’s fault. _I’m_ the one who - ”

“Young man,” Fury said, raising a hand, “I know that. _You_ know that. The Council, however, does not - they’re looking for someone to blame, and they’re looking at Phil.”

Coulson sighed. “This is because of Madris, isn’t it?”

Fury nodded. “I think it is. The Council’s had it out for you since then, and they want you gone. Everyone knows that none of this is your fault, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t going to burn you for it anyway.”

Natasha knew who the Council was - a Federation body that oversaw Starfleet, notoriously composed of politicians instead of military personnel. Scuttlebutt had it that Fury hadn’t been their first choice for promotion to Admiral and Director of Starfleet Intelligence, but after a number of successful engagements - including the retaking of Aliana Five - they’d had little choice but to promote him.

She’d never heard of Madris, though. 

“So you want to take me out of the line of fire,” Coulson went on, “and remain aboard the _U.S.S. Shield_?”

“Yes,” Fury said, nodding, “though I’d hate for you to grow bored.” He turned back to Natasha. “Commander Romanova, if I promote you, you’ll need a first officer.”

Natasha felt the two men turn to look at her, but she kept her eyes on Fury. “Yes, sir,” she acknowledged. “I had thought through a number of candidates in the past few minutes, but there aren’t many of appropriate rank on board who’d be willing to agree to the promotion.”

Fury chuckled. “No, I can’t see Chief Engineer Dresden agreeing to leave her engine room, and your Security Chief is new. McKay is a Lieutenant Commander, but you and I both know that he’s not command material.” He shook his head. “I’d have to put the promotion out to the fleet, and this way you get someone I’ve personally vetted.”

Natasha looked at Coulson. “Are you qualified to function as my first officer?” He’d been on his own for a number of years. She wasn’t even sure if he’d ever served aboard a starship.

Coulson looked thoughtful instead of taking offence. “I am,” he said. “I even functioned as Security Chief for a short time aboard the _U.S.S. Shining Bird_ before transferring to Starfleet Intelligence, though I confess my duties have most recently been relegated to solo activities.”

“Then it’ll be a learning experience for both of you,” Fury cut in. “I’ll keep you on milk runs for now, let you get the feel of your ship. Romanova - it’ll be different, being Captain. Don’t hesitate to talk to someone if it’s getting to be too much for you.”

She felt her lips quirk in a smile. “Are you offering, Admiral?”

He barked out a laugh. “Hell no, I’m too busy.” He looked Hawkeye dead in the eye. “I’m sure you have some friends aboard.”

Natasha felt the bottom drop out of her stomach, but she kept all emotion from her eyes. “I’m sure, sir.”

He nodded. “Very good, then. Hawkeye - that just leaves you.”

Clint went loose in the hips and shrugged, deliberately nonchalant. “I guess so. Are you clapping me in irons, then?”

Fury smiled. “Not quite. You agree that it is your fault that Captain Block was put into the line of fire, and not Coulson’s?”

Clint straightened immediately. “Absolutely, sir.”

“Good,” Fury said. “For your penance, then, I want you to remain aboard. Security Chief Cage is doing an excellent job, but let’s admit that you have a… different perspective… on this affair than she does. You have contacts in both the underworld and among the Orions, as well as a history with this Los fellow. I want you to lead a separate, secret, investigation. Find out why Captain Block died, and find out who’s ultimately responsible.”

Clint blinked. “You’d trust me with that, sir?”

Fury stared at him. “Do I have any reason not to?”

Natasha felt something bubble up in her chest as Clint squared his shoulders and met Fury’s eye. She realized it was pride. “No, sir.”

“Excellent,” Fury said. “Now I won’t offer you rank, because you won’t take it, and I won’t say it’ll be easy, because it won’t. I _will_ make you a Special Investigator on the books of Starfleet Intelligence. It’ll be up to Romanova how long you remain aboard the _U.S.S. Shield._ If you piss her off, she has full permission to drop your ass off at any starbase she likes and shoot you once for good measure.” He stared at Clint. “Is that understood?”

He quirked a smile. “Yes, sir.”

Fury nodded. “Glad to hear it.” He leaned back again. “Very well, then, gentlemen, Romanova,” he said, nodding at Natasha. “It’s been an eventful twenty-four hours. Let’s not do this again. Call me when you have something. Fury out.”

The screen went dark.

Natasha stared at it for a moment, and then took a deliberately deep breath.

When she turned around, both men were waiting for her.

“So, a captaincy,” Clint said, his smile genuine. “Good for you.”

Natasha allowed herself a tiny quirk of the lips. It _did_ feel good. It also felt terrifying, but… good. “Thank you, Hawkeye. Or should I call you Special Investigator?”

He winced. “Just ‘Clint,’ please. I can’t believe that Starfleet just hired me.”

“I can’t either,” Coulson admitted, but his tone was amused. He looked at Natasha. “Admiral Fury likes to play games with people’s ranks and assignments, moving pieces around as he sees fit.” He shook his head. “He calls it ‘stacking the board.’ If you have any serious concerns about me, though, I can certainly transfer elsewhere. He won’t hold your promotion over your head if you don’t want me.”

Natasha had no problem with cheating, so long as the game went in her favour. “I appreciate that,” she told him, “but I honestly have no one else I’d feel comfortable offering the position to, and like he said - better you than anyone.” She cocked an eye at Clint. “At least you know this one, and can keep him in line.”

“Hey!” Clint protested.

Coulson chuckled dryly. “I can try.”

“That’s all I ask,” Natasha said. She caught Coulson’s eye. “Just do your best.”

He nodded, solemn. “I will.”

Clint looked between them once before clearing his throat and clapping his hands. “Well, we’ve just had an interesting day. Drinks? I’m buying.”

Natasha smiled. “Are you honestly offering to go back to Down Below?”

Clint winced. “No,” he said, and then looked around. “Block struck me as the type to have a flask in his office, though.”

Natasha shrugged. “You’re not wrong.” She looked around the ready room. There was a desk, shelves, and paintings, but not a lot of drawers.

“Here,” Clint said, his eyes catching on something she couldn’t see. He stepped towards the painting of the Great Bridge. Clint’s fingers stroked a notch on the wood frame, and suddenly the entire painting sprang away from the wall.

“Ah ha,” Clint said, leaning forward. “I knew it.” He reached inside the hidden recess, past several paper folders, and came out with a bottle. “Glenlivet, scotch. Twenty three seventeen,” he read off the label. “Huh.”

Coulson pressed his lips together. “That’s over fifty years old.”

“Then I bet it tastes delicious,” Clint agreed, prying off the cap. It’d obviously been opened before, but not often. 

Natasha took an appreciative sniff. “Mm,” she said. “I usually prefer vodka, but...”

Clint grinned, and then crossed to the replicator. “Three tumblers, please,” he asked the computer. An instant later, they materialized on the display. “Thank you.”

Crossing to the desk, Clint filled each glass halfway, and then put the bottle down and carried the drinks over. He lifted one. “To new responsibility.”

Coulson hesitated for a moment, looked over at Natasha, and then took a glass. “To new ventures.”

Natasha took the last. She held it out, and the two men clinked their glasses with hers. “To the truth.”

They all nodded, and then drank.

The scotch was smooth going down, but lit a flame in her belly like fire. Natasha allowed herself a smile. “Gentlemen,” she said. “Welcome to the _U.S.S. Shield._ ”

 

~ The End of Episode One

**Author's Note:**

> This is a story that's close to my heart. I started working on the plot in mom's hospital room, jotting down ideas while she slept off transfusions. Star Trek has always been my first love, and it feels right that it - and this story - is now linked to my mom and her journey with leukemia. Star Trek is about hope, and hope is what we need, right now and always. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy it, and stay patient while more is written. This is most definitely 1x01, with plenty more on the way!


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